


Anything, Everything, Forever

by MaraudingManaged



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Angst, Eventual Smut, F/M, Grief/Mourning, Implied/Referenced Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, No really the slowest, Not Epilogue Compliant, Not finding 'the one' right away, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Romance, Slow Burn
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-07-24
Updated: 2018-02-02
Packaged: 2018-12-06 11:13:04
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 6
Words: 33,312
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11599452
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MaraudingManaged/pseuds/MaraudingManaged
Summary: The Second Wizarding War made soldiers out of children, and peace left tears in the fabric of those who survived the chaos. Hermione Granger cannot face the idea of returning to battle as an Auror, and George Weasley cannot face a future where his past still haunts him. Somehow, they must learn to find places in a world that doesn't want to see their struggles and the pain that those around them do not wish to unearth. New friendships emerge, challenges are faced, and George and Hermione must come to accept that there is no returning to what once was. They must learn to heal, and live for what is.





	1. Fireworks

**Author's Note:**

> Hello all! 
> 
> I've been posting on FFN for some time, but this is my first venture to AO3. As this story may well have some *ahem* more mature content as it progresses, I thought it might be wise to post it somewhere which will be able to handle it in all its glory, rather than the edited version I will need to post over on FFN so as not to offend its delicate sensibilities regarding smuttiness. Right now it will be the same as the version on FFN so if you get an odd sense of deja-vu then that might be why! 
> 
> That said, welcome aboard the good ship AEF! I hope you enjoy the ride and my winding ramblings. It is shaping up to be quite the tale indeed. Hold on to the rigging. 
> 
> Beta love: MissandMarauder. You are possibly just about as exited as me about this story. 
> 
> Read, and enjoy! Love, MM-x

 

 

 

It was bright. Too bright, really, for what the day held in store.

Pale morning rays filtered into the bedroom of 12 Grimmauld Place in which Hermione Granger dressed for the day, her movements slow and calculated as she attached the pearls around her neck in horrifyingly practiced movements. She smoothed the soft, inky dress to her knees one last time, not bothering to check herself further in the mirror as she slipped bare feet into the plain, black patent heels that were polished to perfection.

Hermione knew what she would see. Bones much too big for her skin, gaunt cheeks, shadows bruising her eyes in a way no charm could fully conceal. Her usually lush hair, frizzy though it was, dulled and dried by time on the run and lack of care. Gashes that were still healing, littering her skin like kisses from lovers she would much rather forget. That damned curse from Dolohov that sometimes seemed to writhe on her skin like living flame, peeking out from the collar of the dark dress that had seen too many outings in the last fortnight.

Her dulled eyes flicked down of their own accord to her lace-covered arm and narrowed at the offending material. That _word_ that no makeup or glamour could cover up – cursed. 

Hermione had tried, of course. Or rather, she had let others try for her. When she had been selecting a dress for the endless stream of funerals that were to come, Ginny had tried endless charms and glamours to cover the deeply etched _mudblood_ that stood red-raw against the pallor of her skin. They had even tried muggle make-up -  from department store foundation to theatre company cover-up paste – but it seemed to melt and fizzle away to nothing within moments of being applied.

No, it would not be repressed. It would forever be a reminder of all that she had suffered.

As if the nightmares weren’t enough.

Sighing deeply, Hermione’s slim fingers grabbed the bag which had seen her through many dangers, and which she could not yet bear to part with. It was still packed with too many items that offered safety in times of danger, in times when a quick escape was necessary. She couldn’t face emptying it yet, and couldn’t let go of the lingering fear that clung to her periphery even now, when peace had officially been declared. Ron and Harry both kept glancing at it with expressions of equal parts concern and relief – concern she still had it, and relief she did. Hermione appreciated their duality over the inability to let go of their wartime mindset, and she wondered if she would ever be able to feel truly safe again.

“Ready?” A messy, dark head poked around the door and she met emerald eyes with a tilted smile.

Hermione reached out her hand to Harry and he took it, giving it a squeeze. “Where’s Ron?” She asked quietly as they entered the hallway, listening to the muttered conversations in the rooms around them. Whilst it was no longer the Headquarters of the Order, Harry had reclaimed the house as his own and spent his free time trying to make it feel as homey as possible, cleansing whatever darkness from it that he could. Hermione had joined him, losing herself to the easy charms and wandwork whilst escaping the encamped press that floated around in the street outside.

“The Weasleys are downstairs. It’s… well, you know. Ron’s putting on a brave face; but you know him. He’s going to explode eventually.” Harry tried to chuckle, but it was as hollow as she felt.

“Yeah.”

Fred. _Fred._

Hermione still couldn’t process the loss of so many she had cared for in the final battle. As they stood together, waiting for the call to move for the funeral, Hermione recalled those they had lost. Losing Remus and Tonks had hurt her deeply. The loss of her mentor had been a blow she had not been prepared for, and seeing him resting side by side with his wife had sent her running from the Great Hall to sob against a pillar until she could begin to think clearly again. Afterward, once the first round of tears dried, she could feel some hope in Teddy and the thought that the Marauders were now reunited once more.

Her heart cracked a little further as she saw the prone bodies of so many students from the school she had come to love as a second home. Innocent lives, murdered in cold blood simply because they dared to stand against a madman in a desperate last stand. She had uttered a stolen prayer for each student she came across as silent tears fell, until she saw the huddled bundle of dusty, bloodied, red hair. Harry stood a little distance away, his head bowed, and hands clasped together as his adoptive family grieved together. Hermione did the same, coming to stand beside him and taking his hand in silent solidarity.

“Fred.” Harry had said in a strangled whisper, a reminder to himself as well as to her.

He’d been a voice of defiance. Laughter. Joy in the face of darkness.

He died with the ghost of a laugh on his face.

“It isn’t right.” Hermione whispered, jolted to the present as she felt Harry’s hand brush away a stray tear from her face. She leaned into him, wrapping her arms around his waist – far too slim, even for his slight frame.

“None of it was right.” Harry sighed, accepting her embrace comfortably. He rested his chin on her head and together they stood in the hallway as the day began: the last day of the funerals, and the first day of the new beginning for them all.

“You defeated him, though.” Hermione reminded him gently.

“Not alone. Not without all of you. I just died at the proper time.” Harry said darkly. “Chucked a useful curse at the right time. I’m not letting Kings turn me into some bloody hero. You, Ginny, and Neville deserve that more than I do.”

“Stop it, Harry.” Hermione felt a redness creep up her neck as she shook her head. “You know that’s not true. We worked together. None of it could have happened without you, in the end. I know you’ve got this streak where you’re all self-sacrificing, but you are allowed to recognise that you _did_ defeat V-V-Vol..”

Hermione stuttered the name and cursed herself, tearing herself out of his arms and running her hands through her hair in frustration. She _knew_ the taboo was no longer in force, but the nightmares of Bellatrix’s torture welled up unbidden whenever she tried to say the name. She became so _fucking_ angry with herself that she couldn’t say the name she had been so adamant to say before, and she pulled her hair until it stung at her scalp.

“Hermione, stop!” A sharp voice commanded and she spun on her heels to see Harry’s eyes burning into hers. “Stop tearing yourself apart. Just stop it, okay?” He tore her hands out of her hair, her skinny wrists firmly in his grasp. “Hold it together for Ron.  Get through today. Just one day, right?”

“I hate this. I hate all of this.” Hermione whispered.  Harry didn’t let go, but kept a solid grip of her so that she was grounded as he nodded his agreement.

“You will be fine, Hermione. You are the strongest person I have ever known. I know you don’t think you are, but you will walk down those stairs and be there for Ron and hold his hand. You will help him through a day he shouldn’t be having to go through for seventy years, and you will be okay. Yeah?”

Hermione choked on an unexpected laugh at his statement. “When did you get to be so wise, Harry Potter?”

The boy – no, _man_ – gave a slightly cheeky smile as he gently released her wrists and gestured for her to walk down the stairs ahead of him. “Might have something to do with being the Boy-Who-Lived-Twice. The Chosen One. Retuned from Death...” He listed his titles with a theatrical gesture.

“Harry!” She scolded, smacking him firmly on the arm. “How can you even joke…” She began with a huff and a slight shriek before turning to flounce away, her hair sparking with slight temper at his ridiculous answer.

“There’s my Hermione.” He chuckled as he followed her down the stairs.

“Don’t you dare, Harry Potter!” She hissed over her shoulder and he laughed again as she disappeared into the dining room, and into the waiting throng of family that amassed for the day. He was terrible, she was absolutely certain.

 

xxxXxxx

 

“We are here today to remember, and to celebrate, the life of a fallen comrade and fighter against the dark forces of Tom Riddle.” Kingsley intoned the same phrase that had begun every funeral for the fallen. However, the Minister paused in the speech he had given and his dark eyes swept the congregated witches and wizards on the grounds of Hogwarts, the sun glittering on the lake in a silvery blaze. Molly was strangely silent, her sobbing having settled long before the service began, and Arthur next to her stood tall and proud despite the dark circles and solemn expression he wore.

Hermione felt Ron’s hand grasp hers tighter and she looked up at him, his blue eyes watery and rimmed with red, but his lips were formed into a strange, tight smile.

“Fred Weasley was not a man of sorrow. To see so many people here, solemn and grim, would not bring him any joy or bring respect to his memory. So first of all, I must insist…” Kingsley waved his wand and from behind him, there shot what seemed like hundreds of purple and orange hats and scarves in a variety of shapes and sizes. They quickly stuck themselves to the heads of the congregation with resulting unexpected yells and timid, shy laughter as people turned to look at one another. Bubbles of conversation began, followed by louder giggles, until Hermione could hear a cacophony of sound all centred around Fred Weasley and his legacy of prank making and joy.

Ginny was fumbling with a pair of goggles, and Harry was wrapped in a scarf so long it was doing rotations around his whole body, tying his arms firmly to his sides. Even Molly and Arthur hadn’t been spared – their matching purple berets rather elegant compared to some of the monstrosities that attacked the crowd with a strange ferocity. Hermione felt her heart swell when Verity stood by Kingsley. She was helping to direct the clothing, with a distant ghost of a smile on her face as she waved her own wand in tandem with the Minister in a beautifully, perfectly, chaotically choreographed plan.

_He would have adored it,_ Hermione thought with a sudden, unbidden smile.

A large, floppy-rimmed hat collided with Ron’s head and a top-hat landed on Hermione’s own, almost knocking her backwards with the force. She giggled despite herself as she took her sort-of-boyfriend in, his face shadowed by the ridiculous hat, and then a purple scarf planted itself in front of his face, covering it completely, and she couldn’t stop the bright laugh as he struggled to fight off the material.

“Here.” She chuckled, taking the material away, and then watched as Ron’s tight expression melted as he took in the bedlam around him.

“Fred would have loved this.” He said with a small smile, even though there was some sadness lingering in his tone. “Everyone being drowned in scarves at his funeral.”

“Can you imagine what he’d say to me?” Hermione pointed to the top hat perched on her mass of mad curls. “I look loony.”

“That’s the best part, Granger.” A grisly voice broke their conversation up and Hermione whipped around see George, his broken expression lingering on her as she stopped dead in her tracks. “This way, we figured you’d have to laugh along with us for once, out of guilt if nothing else.”

George looked as thin and ghostly as she did, his skin pale and his usually cerulean eyes muted. His hair was lank – grown long to hide his ear, it was clear he wasn’t taking care of himself enough and she felt a fresh swell of grief for the man before her. He wore a dark suit, but she noted that beneath it he still wore the dragonhide boots he so often wore around the shop. He would never let go of that part of himself.

Hermione hadn’t seen much of him since the Battle. He’d been locked away at The Burrow, and Hermione had locked herself away at Grimmauld Place. He’d not come to any of the other funerals, and it was a shock to see the transformation of the muscled, broad, laughing man she had known to the shell that stood before her now. Merlin, she couldn’t imagine what he must be going through to have lost someone so close to him – closer than any other member of his family. Hermione felt her eyes begin to burn, but didn’t break her gaze, and she suddenly felt awkward in her examination of the man before him. “What, Granger?” He said, raising his arms and gesturing to himself wryly. “Nothing to say this time? No biting remarks?”

Hermione frowned, her eyes no longer stinging with tears. “Yes, George Weasley, I do.” She marched up to him, scarf in hand. “You are not wearing a hat, nor are you wearing a scarf. That’s rather rude.”

Before he could move, she wrapped the bright purple scarf she had rescued Ron from under his chin and up to his head, over the ear that was no longer there, and tied it in a giant bow. He blinked rapidly, raising a hand to touch it, as she finished affixing it tightly with a sticking charm. “Now your ridiculous brain full of ridiculous pranks is dressed up as a gift for some idiot.” She spoke sternly, but as she met his eyes she offered a slight wink. “I’m sure you’ll want to make sure that such a gift is made as much a fuss of as possible, knowing you.” She sighed, standing back and admiring her work with her hands on her hips. “Yes, you make a very pretty present, George Weasley. Even if you are a bit… Holey.”

She was fairly certain Ron choked behind her, and she heard him shuffle away rapidly from her madness. It was probably a good idea, she thought logically. The plan could go rather terribly, to say the least.

George stared at her for a moment, before he closed his eyes and his head dropped forward. Hermione felt her heart clench as his shoulders began to shudder and a strange noise seemed to crack out from him, as if it had been forced out against his will. _Had she hurt him, upset him?_  Then his eyes opened and his head raised, and mixed amongst his tears, hidden in the pained expression and the heartbroken expression that was permanently etched on his face… was the ghost of a laugh.

When Hermione heard that broken, crackling, unused laugh it tore at something in her own heart and she marched up to him again. It made her angry, somehow, for this man who was _made_ to laugh not using his voice, his whole being to do so. It went against every law of nature for him to be so lost and so alone, and it flared her need to fix broken things like a burning flame in the darkness. “You’d best laugh at my terrible joke, George Weasley, now I’ve made the effort.” She stomped her foot for effect. His eyes widened further, and then she threw her arms around his shoulders in the tightest hug she could manage.

“He would be so proud. Even I’m impressed, though if you tell anyone that I’ll have to tell your mother about the way you used to sneak your products past Filch in my sixth year.” She whispered so only he could hear, and she heard the same dry laughter again, a little more surely this time. Trembling arms wrapped around her waist. He felt warm and strangely strong despite the weight he had lost, and the fact he didn’t tower over her like Ron did made him a rather nice height to hug. Better still, though -  his laughter made her feel warm with a little pride. 

“You wouldn’t dare, Granger.”

“You’d best laugh then, hadn’t you?” She replied, and then a loud, echoing boom roared above them. Hermione’s body stiffened in his arms and she closed her eyes, breathing through her nose to push the panic down. She began to sweat and began to struggle out of the hug, reaching for her beaded bag for her wand, her mind already whirring with defensive spells and a wandless shield thrown up to protect them. Yet she found herself unable to move, and she looked up with wide-eyed fear. “We’ve got to…”

A wave of dizziness hit her, her vision blurred, and she felt herself stagger. Strong arms fixed at her waist, holding her upright, and a hissed intake of breath forced her to focus on the face in front of her until the image cleared into the stark features of George Weasley once more. 

“Just our fireworks, Granger.” George’s eyes found her own, a strange intensity in them. “Kings announced them, but you were too busy prattling to listen. Breathe. Drop the shield.”

_Fireworks._

_Just fireworks._

_Just fireworks, not bombardas._

_Just fireworks, not Avadas._

“Bloody hell.” She breathed, closing her eyes and dropping the shield as she exhaled. “I promised Harry I wouldn’t do this today.” She was glad Ron was still out of earshot – she could hear his cheers at the fireworks a little distance away. Her racing heart calmed just enough for the sickness and dizziness to ease. His arms felt rather safe, and she allowed herself to relax into the hold for a moment until she felt like the rising tide of panic and fear was receding. He smelled of parchment, smoke, and dragonhide, and a faint tang of whisky which made her frown.

Whisky. He smelled of whisky. How much must he be drinking for it to permeate his clothing?

“You’re fucked up good and proper, aren’t you Granger?” He asked with no small amount of bitter humour, and Hermione felt the remark cut as if it were a smack against her cheek. That wasn’t the laughter she had hoped for, to say the least, and if she didn’t leave soon she would be in for a bout of tears or full-blown panic. Another roar and crackle of fireworks detonated overhead, disguising their conversation as it raised in pitch rather suddenly.

“Bugger you, George Weasley. You have no room to talk. You smell like a brewery.” She hissed at him, dragging herself out of his arms and walking backwards on wobbly legs.

“Oi, Granger, I didn’t mean…” He winced, his mind seeming to stumble upon his poor choice of words just a moment too late, but Hermione refused to allow him to pity her when he clearly needed to spend his energy sorting out himself. Her heart thudded awkwardly as she knew he was probably halfway to drunk based on the scent of his clothes, but it was no excuse to speak to another human being that way. It would be better just to leave it, Hermione decided, and let him grieve for his brother in his own way. She shouldn’t have got involved. 

Hermione stumbled as she walked, and George reached out to steady her, but instead she turned on her heel and leaned on Ron, staring up into the sky.  When she turned back to look over her shoulder not a minute later, he was nowhere to be seen. It shouldn’t have twisted her stomach in knots that he had left so easily.

“Where’d George go?” Ron asked her. “What did he want with you, anyway, ‘Mione?”

“Oh, just the usual.” She muttered, avoiding the answer to the first question smoothly. “Being a pain in the arse, as always.”

 “Sounds about right. Good though, that he isn’t locking himself away anymore _._ ” Ron’s words were tinged with pain, and Hermione winced despite herself at his tone and the meaning beneath them. She had a feeling a rather large helping of Ogden’s was the only reason he’d made it out to the funeral at all. Ron carried on, oblivious to her awkward silence.  “These fireworks are brilliant. Freddie would have been proud.” He slipped a hand into hers, squeezing gently.  

“Yeah, brilliant.” Hermione shuddered, a pang of guilt and a thrill of fear dancing down her spine as she stared fixedly at the sky, reminding herself once again that they were just fireworks, and that George Weasley was clearly drunk. 

And that it shouldn’t have hurt quite as much as it did for him to point out just how badly she was coping.

_Just fireworks._

Hiss, roar, crackle.

_Only Fireworks._

Bang.

_Fireworks._

Hermione closed her eyes, and knotted her free hand into her hair.


	2. Firewhisky

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As before - this is the same chapter as is on FFN. Beware - this is a little bit of an epic! My muse ran away with me. I fully blame exam marking making me more than a little stir crazy. 
> 
> Disclaimer: This glorious world is not mine - I just like to play with the characters for my (and your, I hope) amusement. 
> 
> Beta love: MissandMarauder- without whom there would be rampant semi-colons and questionable phraseology everywhere. 
> 
> With that said: read, enjoy, and if you do... consider a review! 
> 
> Love,  
> MM-x

 

 

The corridors of Hogwarts were eerily empty, Hermione noted, as she wandered aimlessly down them. The castle repairs were well under way – mostly complete now, thanks to the near-sentience of the building and some nifty wandwork of the professors – and so she had taken some time away from the funeral masses to stroll down the halls she had so loved.

She needed some space; she needed some time to breathe.

Hermione’d made a careful escape from Ron with a small smile, begging off with a comment about seeing the library one last time. He’d offered an indulgent grin and a peck to her cheek, offering her company which she’d denied with a nonchalant shake of her head.

“No, thank you Ronald. I know you’d rather be anywhere _but_ the library!”

“Too right! Thanks, ‘Mione. Don’t be too long, yeah?” He kissed her lips this time, the texture slightly rough and chapped against her own. Hermione had blushed crimson at the rather public display of affection, to which Ron had laughed a bit before sauntering to Ginny and Harry who were standing nearby. She wondered if it should have bothered her that it was so easy to convince him to let her go alone, and Harry’s curious stare as she mounted the stairs to the castle alone suggested that perhaps it should have.

Still, she found she rather preferred the peace as her fingers trailed along the ancient walls, the stone rough beneath her fingertips. She could almost feel the magic, just below the surface, waiting to be released as it had been during the Battle.

Hermione closed her eyes and swallowed painfully for a moment. She loved the castle of Hogwarts so very dearly, and it broke her heart to know that she, like so many others, wouldn’t ever be returning. That the war had stolen something else from her, as well as her mentors, her peers, her parents, her _sanity_.  No – she had to lose something equally precious: her education. It was something that Ronald just wouldn’t ever understand or truly appreciate in the same way that she did, although he did know, of course, that she loved school. It was blindingly apparent, after all.

“I will miss you, old friend.” She muttered into the empty corridor, her voice reverberating off the stone and tiles. “What on earth will I do now, hmm?”

“You would always be welcome back, Miss Granger.”

A soft Scottish burr interrupted her musings, and Hermione’s heart jolted painfully in her chest as she spun rapidly on her heel. A palm pressed to her frantically beating heart until she saw Minerva McGonagall watching her from the top of a staircase, elegantly pointed hat perched atop her head and a delicate orange silk scarf neatly tied about her throat.

“Professor!” She gasped. “I’m sorry, I didn’t realise you were there.”

“Oh, it is quite alright, my dear.” The woman’s dark eyes twinkled as she raised her skirts slightly to descend the stairs, and Hermione wondered briefly if that _look_ was one that all Headteachers of the school seemed to inherit along with the office. A look of knowing, of wisdom beyond their time and place in the world. The Headmistress came to stand beside her, looking out at the grounds through the window Hermione had paused at with a small smile. “The offer does indeed remain, Miss Granger… Hermione.”

Hermione cocked her head thoughtfully. “What do you mean?”

Professor McGonagall turned to examine her carefully. “You will always be welcome at Hogwarts. Too many students had their education torn asunder by that wicked creature, and this place will always be an institution of learning. I had hoped to seek you out first, to make the offer in person before the letters are sent…” She clasped the younger witch’s hands in her own then, an impassioned plea on her face. “Come back, Hermione. Complete your N.E.W.T examinations, and allow yourself some normality.”

Hermione gaped, thunderstruck. “R-really? Come back to Hogwarts? But I’m already of age!” She gasped out the words and McGonagall smiled at her wide-eyed excitement. 

“A number of students from last year’s graduating class have already asked if they may… retake the year. Mr Longbottom has been particularly insistent on doing so, as have others. Our governors have agreed that it would only be just to allow the opportunity for those who wish it.” Professor McGonagall paused then, her eyes narrowing slightly as her grip tightened.  “And Hermione, from a purely logical standpoint, to have you here in the castle would be a rather large show of good faith to the parents of the British wizarding community that Hogwarts is safe once more.”

Hermione nodded. “Of course, I understand. I mean, having one of Harry’s friends here at the castle would rather raise the school’s profile considerably. Maybe Harry himself…” She began, the wheels of her mind turning rapidly, but her Professor let out a delicate snort.

“My dear, the day Harry Potter or Ronald Weasley returns to this school as a student is the day Severus Snape himself will tap-dance on the Great Hall dining table, Merlin rest his soul.”

The two shared a laugh then, Hermione’s eyes dampening just a little at the gentle teasing comment about her late Professor. That he had been such a darkly complicated, terribly misunderstood, poorly used man stung at her in dark moments; his death had been so unjust. She and Harry had spent hours talking about the man, trying to pick apart his motives. In the end, they had simply found themselves weeping and angry at Dumbledore, and the way the world had treated Severus Snape for him to make the choices he did.

 “I’ll give you that, I suppose. The time I spent getting those two to do their homework was positively obscene.” She released her hands to dab at her eyes with a sniff. The comment echoed her earlier thoughts about Ron perfectly.

“Mr Weasley more than Mr Potter, I shouldn’t wonder. His essays always did seem to have rather more of you in them than Potter’s.”

“Harry’s perfectly capable, he just had rather a lot on his plate.” Hermione said with a small shrug. “Ron’s the laziest person I think I’ve ever had the opportunity to meet. That’s why I wonder if Harry might come back, if given the chance.”

“Then by all means, Miss Granger, please feel free to convince him to attend. He would be very welcome indeed and I don’t doubt it would be a welcome escape away from prying eyes. But don’t be surprised if he chooses a rather different path.” The twinkling in the Headmistress’ eyes returned.

The two remained in silence, watching the milling crowd from the window, and Hermione flinched as another firework exploded with a bang somewhere in the distance. She didn’t need to look at the Headmistress to know there was concern and sadness in her eyes replacing the twinkle. “Does it get any easier?” She asked instead, trusting the woman to keep her slight confession in confidence. A hand rested on her shoulder and squeezed gently.

“With time, my dear. This too shall pass, as the saying goes.”

Hermione nodded once, the honest answer calming her frazzled nerves a little. “Have you thought about who you would select as Head Girl?” She asked suddenly, desperate to change the topic. “If not, I have a candidate or two I would suggest.” She tilted her head towards her Professor, whose eyebrows had disappeared somewhere into her hairline.

“Indeed, Miss Granger? I rather thought you would be eager for the role.”

“I’m happy to be a prefect, by all means – I loved that job more than you can imagine. But now, after everything…” She shook her head. “No, I don’t think so. I wouldn’t want to rob the true seventh years of a chance at the title they deserve.”

McGonagall made a humming noise in her throat for a moment before gesturing for Hermione to follow her. “Then will you join me in my office, Miss Granger? I would be delighted to hear your thoughts on our Prefect team for the coming year over a cup of tea and perhaps a biscuit.”

“That sounds rather lovely, Headmistress.”

 

xxxXxxx

 

“HEAD GIRL!”

The scream rolled through Grimmauld Place as Hermione stirred the golden syrup into her porridge with a grin fighting on her features. Owls flew into the kitchen at a dizzying rate, dropping letters in front of Ginny, Ron, Harry and Hermione in turn, and Hermione collected hers; feeling the weight of it that indicated a badge within. They had escaped from the renovated Burrow to take some time away from the family to simply enjoy some time together, and Hermione had conveniently suggested these few days when the Headmistress had hinted the owls would come to offer students their places for the new school year. Her suggestions had been Ginny, or Luna. It seemed that McGonagall had taken a risk on the youngest Weasley offspring as Hermione had hoped she might.

Ginny’s mouth was hanging open as she held the red badge in her hand, eyes wide as she held the badge. “But – how – I wasn’t even a _Prefect_! Are they _mad_?”

“Oh, there’s precedent for that, Ginny. Harry’s dad, after all, was made Head Boy, and he was never a Prefect.” Hermione sipped her tea thoughtfully. “And you did keep more than half of the students at Hogwarts safe last year. I think you’re a rather good choice.”

“I hex people behind their backs! I broke someone’s hand with a broom, for Godric’s sake!” She screeched, waving the badge in the air with a wild look of panic in her eyes.

“Yes, well, I set a teacher on fire, snuck a dragon out of the castle, attacked said teacher again, helped a convict escape on a hippogriff using a time-turner, _and_ I kept a reporter in a jar as a beetle for a month all before the end of my fourth year; yet here we are.” Hermione shrugged. “We can play this game all you like, Ginevra Weasley, or you can accept that you will make a brilliant Head Girl and prove that I was right in recommending you to the Headmistress.”

Ginny stared at her for a long moment, her brown eyes still wide. “Y-you recommended _me?_ To McGonagall? _You?”_

Ron gaped at her, still holding his letter unopened. “Blimey, Hermione!” He began, but it was Harry’s stuttered cough that brought their attention away from the dramatics of Ginny’s declaration.

“We’ve been invited to complete our final year.” He said with wide eyes, and then turned to Hermione. “If you recommended Ginny to McGonagall as Head Girl, I suppose you knew?”

“Yes, I did.” Hermione nodded tentatively. “She wanted to ask me first, to see if I’d be interested.”

“Well of course you’d be interested.” Ron scoffed, and Hermione’s eyes narrowed.

“What is _that_ supposed to mean, Ronald?”

“Nothing, ‘Mione. It’s just, well, _you_ , innit? You love that place. Lessons and school and homework.” He said the words like they were a hissing snake ready to bite, looking at the letter as if it might poison him if he opened it.

“Don’t be a prat, Ron.” Ginny reached over, hitting him with her rolled up parchment. “It’s not just that. If you go back… it makes the school look safe again. People will start sending their kids back to Hogwarts. Right, ‘Mione?”

“Right, Ginny.” She smiled at the girl, feeling warmth fill her chest.

“I didn’t think of that.” Ron’s ears turned bright red.

_Obviously._ Deciding that saying the word out loud wasn’t worth the argument, Hermione snorted and turned to her letter, breaking the seal to examine the parchment and letter within. Instead of the Prefect badge she expected, a pure silver badge tumbled out with the words _Senior Prefect – Inter-House_ inscribed on the front. Her brows rose as she flipped open the parchment and read the short note from the Headmistress that accompanied her invitation and booklist.  


_Dear Miss Granger,_

_I hope that this does not take you too unawares, but your comment regarding the allowance of our current students to fulfil their own roles as Prefects gave me food for thought on the matter of duties for our older students. As such, I am introducing a position purely for this year’s older students – a Senior Prefect._

_There will be no single house to which you are affiliated. Instead, you will be tasked with something far more precious: building bridges between houses and fostering unity within the school that has sorely been lacking. I do not deny that we have all had a role to play in this, and I leave it in your capable hands as to how we be begin to mend the rift of division. If you have any thoughts on how we may do this, I shall anxiously await your owl._

_Due to the nature of your task, you will not be in the House common rooms, and will instead have your own space away from the younger students which you will be able to call your own. I understand that there may be some tensions that will run high at first, but I hope you will be able to lead by example and show that we are moving on from the mistakes of the past._

_I look forward to the coming year, Hermione, and know that our future is in capable hands with you and Miss Weasley. Guide her well._

_Minerva McGonagall_  
Headmistress

 

Hermione read the letter twice over before putting it down with shaking hands and a pale face. “What is it, ‘Mione?” Ginny asked, but Ron had opened his letter and had a similar look about him so she knew that he had received a similar missive. When his blue eyes met hers, she knew without a doubt that he wouldn’t be returning with her.

“I can’t do it.” He said shakily. “Not if… not if _they’re_ there.” He said bluntly to her. “And if you had any sense you wouldn’t either, Hermione.”

“That’s why I have to do it, Ron.” She said quietly. “Don’t you see? If I don’t go back, they win. They win because fear wins.”

“I don’t care!” He shouted, standing upright, hhis chair clattering behind him as his hands slammed down on the table. “Don’t think for a second we don’t know about your nightmares, Hermione. Harry’s told us.” Ron stated, pointing to the black-haired man who was re-reading his letter and looking at Ginny’s badge steadfastly.

“Oi! Don’t bring me into this!” Harry raised his hands in defence, only to be ignored by his best friends.

“Do you think that sharing a common room with those snakes is going to make you feel any better? The sons and daughters of your torturers?” Ron seethed, pointedly staring at her bared arm where the word _mudblood_ still stood out in raw lettering.

“Bellatrix had no children.” Hermione willed the frustrated tears down and tried to remain calm as Ron’s face became redder and redder.

“ _That’s not the point!_ ” Ron’s voice had reached fever-pitch now. “You can’t go back there!”

Hermione snapped finally, standing and drawing her wand like a whip, pressing the tip between his eyes before he could blink. “Do _not_ presume to tell me what I can and cannot do, Ronald Weasley, you immeasurable arse. If I go back to Hogwarts it will be because it is the right thing to do for me, and not because you decide so. If Draco Malfoy shares a common room with me, then so be it. I have been at school with him for six years already, I can cope with one year bloody more for the sake of my education! If you had any common sense and hope for your future, so would you!”

“F-Fred and George manage brilliantly without NEWTs.”

“Well, crack on, then! Got any brilliant ideas for a business to begin?” Hermione’s brows rose at his silent seething. “Thought not. They had all the creativity there, didn’t they?”

“You can be such a _bitch_ , Hermione!” Ron spat, clearly noting her use of the past tense as his eyes filled with hot, angry tears.

“And you can be a total _wanker_ , Ron.” She answered, and threw in a solid bat-bogey hex silently before storming out of the room to the cries of outrage of her sort-of boyfriend, slamming the door behind her.

She marched up the stairs, energy whipping around her like an electrical storm, and she threw herself down on her bed with a feral yell. How dare Ronald bloody Weasley try and tell her what to do? She had accepted the calculated risk that Slytherins would be there at the school – known that some of them would be the children of Death Eaters and that some of them might even have been the ones dragged into the whole sorry mess. She had accepted that when she had tentatively agreed with McGonagall to return to the school, damn it all, and she wouldn’t let this silly rivalry go any further. Furiously, she brushed the traitorous tears that escaped from her eyes and slammed a hand into her hair, pulling at her curls until it stung. Ronald bloody Weasley!

A timid knock disturbed her internal rampaging and she sat up, a mess of crumpled t-shirt and wild hair. “Hermione? It’s Ginny.”

Hermione sighed. “Come in. I won’t bite your head off.”

The auburn head popped around the door and an awkward smile greeted her. She came in and shut the door behind her. “So… That’s Ron not going back to Hogwarts then? He’s stormed off to The Burrow – we’ll have to go over there soon so Mum can fuss over me I guess.” She flushed red as Hermione snorted at her comment about Ron. “Did you really talk to McGonagall about me?”

“I really did, Gin. You’d be perfect for the job.”

“No offence, ‘Mione, but I thought you’d be stark raving that you didn’t get it.” The red-head said frankly, her chocolate eyes narrowed suspiciously.

“Oh, Gin.” Hermione said fondly. “I don’t want to be Head Girl. Once upon a time, maybe. But with everything that’s happened… I just want a little less pressure in my life. A little bit of inter-house unity I think I can handle.”

“Well, that will be fun. And you’ll always be welcome in Gryffindor, you know. I read your letter afterwards – did you know you’ll get your own uniform? You won’t wear house colours anymore as top-years. Apparently…” she fished the letter out of her pocket and read “ ‘… _a set of school robes with the Hogwarts emblem only, black tie with gold, silver and bronze stripes, and black school jumper with gold, silver and bronze piping’._ Seems like they’re covering the house colours as tastefully as they can, then. At least they aren’t making you wear red, green, yellow and blue. Can you imagine? You’d look like a Christmas tree!”

Hermione had to agree that it did sound tasteful. “I suppose it really could be worse. Do you really think many of the Slytherins will be back?”

“Dad thinks they’ll have to be – part of their parole. That way they can be kept an eye on without having to be a problem for the Aurors, so to speak. Are you really sure you can face them down? I know you said to that git you’d be fine, but…”

“I’ll be okay, Gin. What’s the worst Draco Malfoy and his cronies can do? Hiss at me in the corridors and call me a mudblood? Well, his Aunt saw to it I’ve got a living reminder of that word everywhere I go. It’s hardly going to bother me if he says it to my face, is it?” Hermione said with a dark, unpleasant sort of laugh as bitterness crawled around her heart. “Anyway, Malfoy was a Prefect before. If they let him keep it, he’ll have to be all about the inter-house unity, so he’ll have to be on his best behaviour. I can always find a way to transfigure him into a ferret if he isn’t.” She said nastily then. “Bounce him around the common room a few times, see how he likes that reminder.”

“Now, now, Hermione. Can’t be saying things like that to the Head Girl. I’d have to dock points.” Ginny waggled her finger threateningly and Hermione grinned, glad that Ginny seemed to have accepted her position for now.

“I’ve still got the map, I’d find a way to do it in secret.” She retorted snippily.

Ginny threw her arms around her then in a warm hug. “That’s my girl. Ignore Ron, he’s an arse. But lay off the Fred digs yeah? Or I’ll have to bat-bogey _you_.” Ginny’s eyes darkened to icy chips, and Hermione nodded sharply. It had been a low blow and she knew it. Ron just knew how to push her buttons so thoroughly, she managed to think without speaking.

“Sorry, Ginny.” She apologised, leaning against the younger girl tiredly.

“I know, ‘Mione. You can make it up to me by explaining to me properly how all the Prefect bollocks works. I don’t want to go into this looking like a total idiot. Especially if I’ve got to keep the likes of Draco sodding Malfoy in line.” Ginny’s freckled nose wrinkled in distaste at the thought.

Hermione brightened, flying from her bed to flip open her old school trunk, steadfastly ignoring the slight pang she felt as she pushed her neatly folded stack of Gryffindor uniforms to one side. She delved in the contents and found her Sixth Year Prefect planner, holding it out to Ginny with a proud flourish. “Here – this is my record of all the meetings we had. I took notes of every meeting – don’t pull that face Ginevra Weasley, you’ll be thankful for it shortly. I’ve got colour-coded plans of the patrol schedules and _everything_.”

She tried, unsuccessfully, not to grin at Ginny’s groan.

 

xxxXxxx

 

Dinner at The Burrow that evening was a riotous affair, a strange juxtaposition to the heavy cloud of mourning that had hung over it for the month before. Ginny’s _Head Girl_ banners swamped the kitchen. Most of the Order were there in celebration of her status, but also of something so delightfully normal. Andromeda had even brought Teddy for Molly and Harry to fuss over whilst a buffet spread out over massive tables in the back garden.

“This is nice.” Harry said to her as they stood under one of the orchard trees, watching the sun give way to the twinkling stars of night. “Feels… good, somehow.”

“No darkness.” Hermione nodded, bringing up the glass of white wine to her mouth and taking a long sip. She leaned her head against Harry’s bony shoulder and they simply stood together, watching the happiness that had been permitted to flourish at last. Bill was carrying Ginny around on his shoulders as if she were a child again, and Fleur laughed with a clap of her hands as the younger girl’s arms cartwheeled as she tried to keep her balance. George was sat on a bench, lounging, catlike; and even he seemed to have something that resembled a smile on his face as he watched his sister being paraded about like a prize. He waved his wand to balance her with a gust of air, and she gave a thumbs-up to him which he hesitantly returned.

It _was_ good. It was true, light, and happy. It was what they had fought for, and for the first time since the end of the war Hermione felt some sense of peace in her heart.

“Hermione, Harry!” A booming, rich voice interrupted their comfortable silence, and both turned as one to see Kingsley Shacklebolt strolling up to them in deep purple robes, a bright smile on his face that flashed his rows of pearly teeth.

“Minister!” Hermione greeted him with a hug as he opened his arms to her. His solid frame collided with hers as he lifted her off her feet, squeezing her hard before placing her back down again.

“Kingsley.” He corrected with a wag of his finger. Candles flickered into life around them, making the sunset feel all that more magical, and Hermione smirked at his words with a slight giddiness from the wine she’d been sipping steadily all evening.

“I’m sorry, I didn’t realise – had you forgotten your own name?” She teased lightly, earning an elbow in the ribs from Harry. The game had been ongoing since he had taken his role as Minister for Magic – Kingsley liked to see himself as an Order member first, and Minister second when in their company.

“How are you, Kings?” Harry asked cheerfully, taking the man’s hand and shaking it firmly instead of her flying hug.

“Very well indeed, Harry. I wondered if either of you had any plans, now things have settled down a little bit?”

“Well, we’ve heard from Hogwarts.” Hermione explained, and Kingsley nodded thoughtfully.

“A fine offer indeed, and a fair choice. However, with your skills and all that you did during the war, I think it’s fair to say there is much more you can _offer_ than the school can give to _you._ I have a… proposition of my own for you – and for Ronald and Neville too. We would be interested in taking you into the Auror programme; all four of you. You are talented duellists, quick-thinking in a fight, and you’ve proved yourself in the field far more thoroughly than most Hogwarts graduates ever will.”

Hermione’s ears began to ring as Kingsley continued his offer, his reasons for choosing them and offering a position. Her skin became clammy at the very thought of returning into a duel situation so soon after the end of the war. She had never considered becoming an Auror – even before the war had started – and she had absolutely no intention of getting involved in hunting down Death Eaters when she had a chance to make real changes in the world. She wanted to change laws for Muggleborns, for werewolves, for magical beings, for Merlin’s sake! Her plans did not feature going head-long into danger once again.

“… and, quite frankly… Hermione? Hermione, are you alright?” The man asked as she staggered, wine sloshing from her glass onto her hand.

“I’m… I’m sorry Kingsley. I don’t know what came over me. I think I’m just tired; It’s been a long day!” Hermione gave a bright smile to the man, the false emotion stretching her face rather too wide and showing too many teeth to be sincere, she knew. She felt her hand itching to dive into her hair, to anchor her, but instead she gripped her glass just a little tighter.

“Are you sure?” He asked, a frown dropping his brows close to his dark eyes which were assessing her closely.

“Of course. Please, don’t worry.” Hermione nodded and she felt Harry slip his hand into hers, giving it a tight squeeze. She turned to him and his emerald eyes bored into her own honey ones with a hint of knowing. Her stuttering heart began to slow and she offered a smaller, genuine smile to him before turning back to the Minister for Magic with a carefully schooled expression of thoughtfulness she had long since perfected for when she needed to appear more interested in quidditch than she actually was.  She would have to thank him later, when Kingsley left them to their thoughts.

“It sounds like an amazing opportunity, Kings.” Harry interrupted them. “But I thought you needed NEWTs to get into training?”

_Good man, Harry_. Hermione nodded along, grateful for his distraction more than she could say there and then. “That’s true – aren’t the requirements quite high?”

Kingsley laughed then, full and rich. “For you, I think some exceptions can be made, Hermione. I think if you sat your NEWTs tomorrow you’d have a slew of Outstanding marks to your name as it is, but Auror training isn’t all about the grades you get. We get plenty of skilled graduates who just can’t perform in the field – and you four have proved you’re more than capable of that.” His heavy hands rested on both of their shoulders. “Have a think about it. You’d be quite an asset to the department, and I think you’d be well placed to round up the rogue Death Eaters that need their trials and judgements.” He removed his hands and fished in his robe pocket before drawing out two parchment envelopes, handing them to Harry and Hermione. “Read them over, and send me an owl. Whichever way you choose.”

Kingsley’s eyes lingered on Hermione as she unclasped Harry’s hand to take the envelope, taking it tightly in her grasp. She didn’t open it, instead meeting the Minister’s eyes and biting down on her lip hard before looking at the grass with a frown.

She had no intention of becoming an Auror, that much was certain. And she had a feeling Kinsley knew it.

“It was wonderful to see you, Kingsley. I… I need to think about this. Excuse me.” Hermione stuttered and swept past the tall man before he could stop her or question her further. Without looking back, she headed deeper into the orchard behind the Burrow, and as soon as she was out of sight she collapsed against a tree, sliding down until she was sat at the base with a heavy sigh.

What in Merlin’s name was she going to do about this sodding mess?

She drew out her Hogwarts letter and Senior Prefect badge from her jeans pocket and placed them in the grass, alongside the unopened letter from Kingsley. Leaning her head back against the gnarled wood of the ancient apple tree, she stared up into the darkening sky as she contemplated just how she was going to get out of this one.

Hermione could see it now. Ron would accept without a second thought, and that would be all the encouragement Harry would need to follow him. The two together would torment her into joining them and when she insisted on going back to Hogwarts – which is what she desperately wanted to do – it would cause such an awful fight that she’d find herself on Platform 9 ¾ on the 1st of September friendless and alone, just as she had started her educational career. She didn’t need any silly notions of Divination to see that one coming a mile off. It twisted her heart uncomfortably and she chewed harshly on her lip until there was a slight tang of blood, and she hissed in pain.

A rustling in the grass brought Hermione’s attention from her thoughts, and her brows rose as the shadowy figure of George Weasley hovered just a little distance away, leaning leisurely against one of the trees. “Alright there, Granger?”

“What are you doing here, George?” The words came out sharper than she’d intended, and she winced. “Sorry, I didn’t mean it like that. I’ve a lot on my mind.” The man, rather than looking offended, simply grinned at her and pushed himself off from the tree, slinking over to her and dropping down to sit opposite her in the grass.

“Colour me shocked, Hermione Granger is thinking too hard. Here. Don’t think, just drink.” From nowhere, a small silver flask appeared in his hand and he held it out with a teasing weave back and forth.

“And what, George Weasley, is in that flask?” She asked sternly, earning another rather roguish grin.

“Gotta try it to find out, Granger. I’m not going to poison you. Look…” He removed the top of the flask and took a small sip himself before holding it out to her. “Just go steady, yeah? Don’t want to blow your mad little head off.”

Against all her better judgement, deciding that her day had already gone to hell in a handbasket, she took the flask and had enough of a sip to swallow. Promptly she began coughing, her eyes watering as her throat began to fiercely burn, a spicy cinnamon hit following the potent alcohol only seconds after the first flames receded. “Good Godric, what on _earth_ was that?” She choked out as she tried to pass back the flask to George with a wince, her face burning with sheer humiliation.

Then she stopped in her tracks, eyes widening with wonder.

The man was doubled over, absolutely howling with laughter, tears streaming down his face. “Granger – your face – camera – for posterity!” George wheezed as his blue eyes shone with mirth she hadn’t seen perhaps since before… well, before she, Ron and Harry had disappeared on their mad hunt for the horcruxes. He went on for a good minute before he managed to compose himself enough to attempt conversation once more. Still chuckling, however, George sat and wiped his eyes with his sleeve before waving the flask back in her direction “Take a bigger sip. It gets better the second time, I swear.” He crossed his heart, eyes still twinkling like they had done, many moons ago.

Suddenly desperate to hear that laugh again, Hermione tipped the flask back and took a longer swig.

_God almighty, now I know why they call it Firewhisky,_ she thought with a shudder as the liquid shot down her throat again. However, as she coughed only once this time, she realised that George was right. Instead of the pure, burning agony of the alcohol, she could actually taste the flavour of the drink – cinnamon, honey, and that distinct peaty taste she recognised from many a Burns supper where her Grandfather had allowed her a tiny taste of the spirit; watered down so she could appreciate it a little more.

“Better, right?” She nodded, but still returned the flask to him as her cheeks continued to burn with the heat the magic of the drink provided in the moments after it was imbibed. “Right, want to tell me why you ran off like a bat out of the dungeons away from Kings and Harry?”

Hermione nodded towards the letters with a sigh. “Kings has made an offer of us entering Auror training without completing our NEWTs. But…”

“You want to go back to Hogwarts, right?” George deduced quickly, and she nodded. “And you know my git of a little brother is going to be a right arse about it.” Another nod, this time her eyes narrowing as she recalled their argument. “Well, bugger him, Granger.” George said frankly. “You’ve spent too much time doing what every other sod wants over the last few years. You’re a bleeding heart and that’s not a bad thing, but… don’t become a doormat. Be selfish, do what _you_ want to do. Ron, I promise, will recover quickly enough.”

“Even if I have to share a common room with Draco Malfoy?” She held up the letter from McGonagall for him to read and his eyes traced the writing quickly, one brow raising as he did so before laughing out loud again.

“You know what, Granger? Yes, even if you have to share a common room with the glorious ferret himself. Because if Ron gives a damn about you, he’ll want you to be happy. And blimey, even I know that Hogwarts makes you happy.” He looked incredulous at the thought, as if he thought his brother quite stupid if he couldn’t see that. Hermione couldn’t help but agree with the notion.

“We already fought about me going back today, you know. He tried to tell me that I wouldn’t be going back.” She admitted with a grimace.

“And…?” George’s brows rose in suspense, and Hermione flushed.

“I might have bat-bogeyed him and called him a twat.” Hermione muttered, her cheeks flaming red of her own accord. “We’ve not spoken since.”

George stared at her for a few long moments, before doubling over again, his roaring laughter echoing through the trees so loudly that the roosting birds were sent upwards into the night in a flurry of feathers and a shower of aggrieved squawks. Hermione found herself giggling in response to the noise until the two were cackling into the night, unable to meet one-another’s eyes for fear of beginning a fresh gale.

“Oh, George.” She said with mirth, picking up her letters and shoving them into her pocket. “Thank you, I needed that.” He said nothing but simply grinned as she stood, stretching her arms above her head as her spine cracked. “Are you coming?”

Hermione gestured towards the party and George paused for a moment.

“In a minute, Granger.” He replied wistfully, and her gaze softened as she nodded.

“Okay, then. I’ll probably be going home soon, so… Goodnight, George.” She gave a hesitant wave and then turned to head back towards the floating lights of Ginny’s party, the laughter and voices drawing her closer now she felt more relaxed. She could see that most were now in little groups, sat chatting and eating or drinking together, and she felt the little bubble of peace return as she looked on at the sight. Harry spotted her and began to wave her over to where he and Ginny sat with Bill, Fleur, and Ron, and she began to march through the long grass over to the long rows of tables that had been laid out. She started to steel herself for the inevitable conversation about her future with Harry and Ron when a shout made her pause.

“Granger! Hey, Granger!” George’s voice called from behind her and she spun around, seeing his broad-shouldered frame jog up to her in the darkness. “Hey, you left this. Can’t go to Hogwarts without it.” He told her sternly. “Someone’s got to keep the ferret in check, right?”

In his hand was her shining silver _Senior Prefect_ pin, and without asking for permission, George quickly drew close and affixed it firmly to her checked shirt. She could smell the whisky on his breath, yet Hermione could also identify the slight hint of cinnamon and honey mingled within, as she now knew what hidden depths could be found in the drink he seemed to favour to drown out… what, she didn’t want to think on too closely there and then. That was another thought for another night.

“There. Perfect Prefect Granger. Just… make sure you’re not _too_ perfect, right?” His eyes narrowed. “Don’t get all Percy on me.”

George’s grin was infectious as she stood tall. “I suppose… I could cause a _little_ ferrety havoc.”

 


	3. Clarifications and Confessions

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Gentle reminder before you stone the witch - please remember this is a slow-is burn on the Hermione/George front and in order for her to see she is with the wrong Weasley... she does actually need to be with said Weasley. *Backs away slowly*
> 
> Beta love: MissandMarauder, my absolute star who kicks my strange narrative foibles to the curb so you get a lovely, polished story.

 

 

Molly’s glee that she was to be a Prefect again only added to her rather flushed features from the Firewhisky she’d necked earlier with George. In fact, she was pulled into a suffocating hug by the buxom witch within seconds of the statement about Malfoy, which had both Ginny and Harry chuckling from behind her. Clearly, her decision came as absolutely no surprise to either of them - which was a relief in itself, because at least she wouldn’t need to explain herself to them.

Only to Ron.

“Oh, my dear!” Molly sniffed, grasping her shoulders firmly with a watery, tremulous smile. “I’m so pleased – so very pleased you’re going back to Hogwarts with my Ginny. You’ll look after her, won’t you dear?”

“Of course, Mrs Weasley.” Hermione promised the Weasley matriarch sincerely. Though she doubted Ginny would need any looking after, she would at least try to keep the girl on track and help out if she could - and attempt to keep some of the older Prefects in line.

“Oh, stop! Molly. _Molly_ , dear!” She chided and Hermione agreed with the witch, knowing full well that she’d probably never be able to call the woman by her first name after seven years of ingrained habit. Even after only one year of calling Remus _Professor_ , it had taken her almost double that time to get out of calling him by that title and even then, she had slipped up frequently.

Hermione steadfastly ignored the burning gaze coming from Ron. She could feel his eyes boring holes into her back as Molly hugged her once more for good measure before she latched on to her son who was about to try and slink of back into the shadows. “Now, my George, come on. Let's get you some dinner. You’re looking _much_ too thin.” Hermione fought not to giggle as the man was strong-armed by his mother to the buffet table still laden with copious amounts of food, even though she knew she should feel sorry for him, really. This was his mother’s way of handling her grief, and it wouldn’t hurt him to allow her this need to keep him safe and secure for a while until she could come to terms with her loss in her own way.

“Kingsley, if I might have a word?” Hermione asked before she went to face her friends. The man was hovering near Arthur, sipping on some sort of smoking concoction that Hermione couldn’t name and didn’t really want to as he nodded, an amused smirk on his face. Mr Weasley nodded in greeting to Hermione with a gentle smile, before quickly leaving the pair to their discussion; finding his wife and son so that Hermione could have some privacy in her conversation with the Minister.

“I suppose this is you saying, very politely, ‘no’?” He chuckled as she passed back the still-sealed envelope.

“It is, Kingsley. I need to finish my education - you know me too well to even try and argue the point. And… look, can we talk somewhere a little less crowded for a moment?” She looked around at the faces who were trying, and failing, to look innocent and as if they weren’t listening in to the conversation. “There’s something I need to talk to you about. Something I need help with.”

Kingsley frowned. “Are you in trouble?” He asked with concern, reaching out a hand to rest on her shoulder comfortingly.

“No!” Hermione exclaimed, and then quieted as heads turned at her raised voice. “No. Well, I might be from _you_ once I explain. Look - just come inside. Let me explain everything.”

She quickly led the Minister for Magic into the Burrow’s kitchen and pulled out a chair, sitting down and gesturing for him to do the same. “What is this about, Hermione?” Kingsley asked, removing his hat and placing it on the table.

Hermione fidgeted with her hair for a moment before taking a deep breath. “ I owe you a full explanation, first of all, as to why I won’t be joining the Auror training programme, and I’d like to think you’ll keep the personal nature of this confession at the utmost discretion.”  Hermione met his dark eyes and he nodded, his expression soft. “Thank you, Kings. I think I have PTSD - that is, post-traumatic stress disorder;  I can’t sleep for more than a few hours at a time without nightmares; loud noises scare the hell out of me; and so the thought of becoming an Auror makes me want to crawl out of my own skin. That said, becoming an Auror never was my plan - I’m more interested in _creating_ laws, rather than upholding them. Now, if you ever have an opening where I might be able to do that, then I would be incredibly interested.”

Kingsley kept her gaze as her fingers delved deeper and deeper into her hair, pulling at the strands to ground her as her voice shook. She hadn’t truly made this confession, word for word, to anyone. Harry knew, of course. He’d been the one to suggest it might be a good idea for them to get some sort of counselling for their trauma, but she’d not yet been able to find someone in the wizarding world who handled cases like theirs. In fact… she’d not been able to find a therapist of any kind, which astounded and confused her in equal measure. She supposed she might be able to find a muggle counsellor and pretend she was ex-military, but she’d have to fake an awful lot of documentation and even use Polyjuice to make herself appear anything like the sort of person who would have seen battle bad enough to give her the sort of nightmares she had.

It just wasn’t worth the hassle, really.

“Hermione.” Kingsley’s voice was soft, and she realised his large hand was covering her wrist, gently tugging her hand from her hair. “Let go. You are hurting yourself.”

“Not really. It helps keep me… here.” She explained haltingly. “It stops me from panicking. From going back to places that I don’t want to be.” Hermione clarified, hoping that she didn’t sound as mad as she suddenly thought she did.

“The Muggles. They call these things panic attacks, yes?” Hermione nodded. “A lot of people suffered with them, the first time around. I think there’s a few squib… mind healers, or something like that. They might be able to help you, you know. Do you want me to put you in contact with them, if they still work with our lot?”

Hermione could have wept, there and then. Instead she just nodded once more, offering a tremulous smile. “That would be helpful, Kings. Harry… he was… he needed to… he suggested the same thing.” She finished lamely. “There was a lot that happened that we haven’t really talked about. That we can’t talk about, you know?”

“I understand. War is a terrible thing, and terrible things happen within it to those who fight. If you do ever wish to talk, Hermione, there are those who are always willing to listen. Those who have been in your place… or something similar.” Kingsley added wryly, noting her slight look of disbelief at his words. The thought that _anyone_ had been through just what they had was laughable, and Kingsley seemed to notice his slip-up with a self-deprecating grin.

“True. There is one thing I… I do want to talk about. Something I did.” Hermione began to fidget again, looking down at her lap and drawing her lip between her teeth. “I’m afraid it’s… it’s not good, Kings. It was done with good intentions, but it was also done with extreme arrogance and looking back… stupidity, too.”

“I don’t believe anything you would do would be entirely stupid, Hermione Granger.” Kingsley chuckled, sitting back. “Go on, tell me.”

“Oh, just you wait.” Hermione muttered, and took another deep, calming breath before her words tumbled out of her in a rush. “I placed my parents under a false memory charm over the summer before I was due to start my seventh year at Hogwarts and sent them to live in Australia. They don’t know that magic exists, or even that they have a daughter named Hermione Granger. They believe they are called Wendell and Monica Wilkins, ex-patriots from the UK, with no children.”

Kingsley barked out a laugh before he could stop himself, but then sobered when he realised that she was being entirely serious. “You’re… you are serious. At seventeen you successfully completed an accurate memory charm and sent your parents to Australia?”

Hermione felt her throat constrict, and hot tears began to burn her eyes. “Too many students at Hogwarts… their parents… I couldn’t see them hurt, Kings!” She sobbed out loud then, her hands forming tight fists. “Considering who I was friends with, I thought it was too much of a risk. It was probably arrogance, but I didn’t dare take the chance. At least if I had no idea where they were, they couldn’t be used against me. I couldn’t be used against them. They’d be entirely safe even if I was… if I was to-tor-tortured.” She stuttered the word out, grabbing at her arm where the _mudblood_ scar seemed to burn in sympathetic memory.

“Oh you utterly brilliant, brave, foolish girl.” Kingsley said tenderly, and drew her into an impromptu hug, clearly not having missed her difficulty over the word which had ended her sentence and her following gesture. “Who knows of this?”

“Harry and Ron, that’s all.” She whispered into his shoulder before sitting back. “Sorry, I’m a right old mess, I know.”

“If any person has permission to be a ‘mess’, it is you.” Kingsley offered her a handkerchief from his robes and she took it gratefully, dabbing at her eyes. “You are stronger than you know, I think. A fair bit braver too, I would wager.” He chuckled as she shook her head, disbelief fluttering in her chest after all she had confessed to him in the ten minutes they’d spent in the kitchen away from prying eyes. “Look, Hermione, I will be clear on this. Memory charms are tricky beasts. You must have known when you did it that it might not end well.”

“Yes, I… I did a lot of reading beforehand. I was very careful, but I knew the risks. I have the memories I took in a Pensieve but I know that it isn’t the same.”

“Precisely. And it is questionably very grey magic at the best of times. You are correct - even with good intentions, we need to keep this very quiet, Hermione.”

“I’m sorry to have put this on you, Kingsley. I shouldn’t have come to you, I…”

“Hermione, stop!” The wizard snapped sharply, forcing her mouth to shut and her eyes to grow wide. “I am incredibly glad you trusted me. I would rather it be me than some Ministry underling I do not yet entirely trust. I have some connections in the Australian Ministry - only one or two, mind you - so I will begin to put a few delicate feelers out to see if we can begin to trace them. Can you do the same with the Muggle authorities?”

“I’ll try - though I can’t say for certain where they are. I didn’t want to give the Death Eaters any possible hint of where to find them, though they’ll be somewhere populated enough to need a dentist - teeth healers.” she added when Kingsley looked a little confused at her Muggle terminology. “It’s their occupation. I only removed myself, and changed their names.” She tried to remain clinical in her explanation, but stumbled a little over mention of removing herself from her parents memories once more. “Get a grip, Granger.” She scolded herself firmly, determined not to fall apart again on the Minister for Magic.

“Do not be too hard on yourself, Hermione. Grief and healing is a process that takes many years, not a matter of weeks. The smiles we see today are a good start, it is true, but they are only the beginning. We will take steps back, and we will fall victim to melancholy whilst we come to terms with all that has been. Trust in your heart, and you will see that it will not lead you astray.” He told her, standing from his seat and placing a hand on her shoulder again. “I will give you some time to gather your thoughts, Hermione. Is there anyone I can send to you?”

Hermione knew her immediate answer should have been Ron, but the look on his face when she’d announced via George she was going back to Hogwarts sent a cold shiver down her spine. “Harry. Ask Harry, please.”

Kingsley offered her a lopsided smile as if he knew exactly why she had made that choice over her still-not-quite-official boyfriend, but he made no comment. Squeezing his hand again, he left her alone in the kitchen for only a minute before the messy-haired man she loved like a brother flew in.

“Harry?” Hermione looked up from her lap, her mind swirling furiously with everything she had revealed to Kingsley in a rush of possibly poorly-planned feeling. Fear and misgivings ate at her and panic began to creep up her spine as she met his emerald eyes; eyes that she had learned to read as easily as she had any book from Hogwarts library.

They were wide with concern, and without a word Harry bundled her in his arms. Her small frame shaking, Hermione finally permitted herself to sob herself into blessed oblivion.

 

xxxXxxx

 

“So, that’s that then. You’re going back, no matter what anyone else thinks.”

“Ron, please.” Hermione dug her fingers into her temples, trying to stave off the impending migraine that was already blooming behind her eyes. “You know how much getting my NEWTs means to me.”

“Can’t you just… I dunno, study at Grimmauld and then take the exams at the Ministry?” He looked at her, blue eyes wide and pleading.

“No, and I wouldn’t want to. The education offered at Hogwarts is too good to throw away; this opportunity is too good to throw away!” She explained firmly, for what felt like the hundredth time that morning.

Ron had steadfastly ignored her for the rest of the evening at the Burrow, even when she had leaned in to try and kiss him in an attempt to mollify his fit of the sulks. That had felt like a slap in the face, and she had stormed off in a temper that had Molly scolding her youngest son as a backdrop as she returned by Floo to Number 12, where she now called home instead of her Muggle house in Hampstead. He hadn’t bothered to follow her, which had felt like an even bigger hit to her gut as she put herself to bed with a generous dose of Dreamless Sleep, desperate for a night of uninterrupted rest just for once that week. She’d been asleep within moments, because she hadn’t even heard Harry return that night, though she was sure that he couldn’t have been that far behind her.

Clearly, whatever Molly said to Ron had worked, because he’d come over, shamefaced, that morning as she and Harry ate a quiet breakfast that he’d cooked them, whistling to himself as he did so. He’d quickly made himself scarce, mumbling something about seeing Ginny, but Hermione almost wished he had hung around just in case wands were crossed.

“So you’d rather be with those snakes, would you, than training to be an Auror?”

Hermione scoffed at that, frustrated that she needed to spell it out for him and that he was really so blind to what she wanted from her life. “Oh, Ron. When have I ever expressed _any_ interest in becoming an Auror? I mean, really!”

“Oh, I’m sorry! Are you too good to be keeping the world safe from Dark Wizards now?”

“That isn’t what I’m saying at all!” She ground her teeth, trying to keep her composure and not allow him to drag her down into one of their usual, endless arguments. “If I went into Law, it would be in the creation of it, not the enforcement of it. And to do that, to make real change in the world, I need my NEWTs.”

“Right, so Aurors aren’t making real changes. Good to know, that. I’ll make sure to let Kingsley know.” Ron laughed at her, rolling his eyes. “Merlin, Hermione, do you even hear how stuck up you sound?”

“Stuck up? What, because I happen to think there might be a better job out there for me than putting my life in danger every minute of the day? That I might be scared for the life of the people I care about?” She raised her hands. “Merlin be praised because I give a damn!”

“Ah, there it is.” Ron leaned back in his chair, a look of smug satisfaction on his face. “You’re scared. That’s what it comes down to, isn’t it? Scared you’re not good enough at Defence Against the Dark Arts to be good enough as an Auror. You only got an ‘E’ in your OWLs, after all.” Ron taunted her, and Hermione flushed crimson with her own anger and the old flame of insecurit

“I don’t want to discuss this with you, if you’re going to be so petty. It isn’t fear of _not being good enough_ , Ronald Weasley. I think I’ve proved quite well I’m bloody good with a wand time and time again. It’s the fact that I’ve spent so much time in the last year alone _nearly dying_ , I’m not keen to do it again so soon, if that’s quite alright with you!” She snapped at last, digging a hand in her hair and running it through the frizzy mass in a gesture that was part frustration, part calming habit.

Ron’s face fell as her words seemed to hit home, and the ruddy colour in his cheeks that had boiled up from their argument seemed to pale dramatically as he took in their implication. His face seemed to harden into firm lines as his lips pursed, his pale blue eyes narrowing as he took her in. “You know, Hermione, you aren’t the only one who suffered. But I want to move on, and you should too.”

That comment stung, but Hermione tried to brush the jab aside and be the mature one, seeing as Ron clearly couldn’t be. “That’s what I’m trying to do, Ron. For me to move on, I need to go back to Hogwarts and get my NEWTs. Get ready to change the laws that allowed what happened to me… to _all of us_ , to actually happen.” She tried to explain it to him as kindly, and as simply as she could. She recognised she was dumbing down, _again_ , but she refused to feel badly about it if it would get her point across and end this ridiculous argument that had been going on for - she glanced at the clock surreptitiously - over an hour now.

“But… we’ve only just got together Hermione. If you go to Hogwarts, we’ll never see each other.” Ron’s tone became quite sad, and he reached out over the dining table to take her hand. Sighing, she finally relented and passed her own hand to him, letting him twine his longer fingers in her own slim ones.

“Are we, though, Ron? A few kisses, here and there? What _is_ this?” Hermione gestured between them, finally voicing her frustration over the lack of definition in their relationship of the last month and a half.

Ron looked baffled at her question, running a hand through his hair awkwardly. “Well… blimey, Hermione, I thought that was obvious.”

“Clearly not, which is why I’m asking.” She muttered, exasperated now, and more than a bit red in the face herself that whatever Ron thought was so obvious she’d somehow missed. 

“Well, I thought you were my girlfriend. I kind of thought that with all the hand holding, and the kissing and stuff…” He trailed off, suddenly looking worried. “That is what you want, right? You, you do want to be with me, right?”

“Promise me you’ll come and see me at Hogsmeade weekends?” She asked, bringing his hand up to rest against her cheek which was still quite pink. “And write to me at least a few times a week? Save me from having to actually converse with the glorious ferret himself?”

“Merlin, ‘Mione, of course I will!” Ron promised sincerely.

“Then yes, Ron. I want to be with you.” Hermione’s face cracked into a smile at last. “Now will you stop being such an arse?” 

“Can’t promise that.” He admitted ruefully as she pressed her lips into his palm, feeling the callouses of his skin against the soft skin of her mouth, before moving along to his wrist. Ron groaned at the sensation, closing his eyes and slumping down into his chair further. “You should probably stop that, ‘Mione.” He mumbled.

“Hmm?” She tried very hard not to smirk. “Why, pray tell, is that?”

“Might have to snog you senseless if you don’t stop.” He cracked open one eye to watch her, and Hermione hesitated for just one second, toying with her _boyfriend_ \- her internal monologue played with the word gleefully - before pressing her mouth into the apparently sensitive skin of his wrist again. “Bugger it.” He cursed before practically vaulting over the table, dragging her up by the waist and pushing her into the kitchen door, leaving the chair she had been sitting on clattering to the floor in their wake.

Ten minutes later, Hermione pushed Ron off her, looking feverishly bright-eyed and flushed, her mouth bruised and face flushed. “You can’t win arguments just by snogging me you know, Ronald.” She scolded breathlessly, attempting to smooth down her hair where his hands had delved and tugged. It had been their first proper snog, she realised, with tongues and hands in places that weren’t just gently held waists, and it had been quite… nice. 

“I can try, though.” He grinned, self-satisfied as he swaggered into the parlour holding the fireplace. “Are you coming, ‘Mione? Mum will be making lunch soon.” 

“Er, in a minute!” She called back to him, wandering to the sink and running the water until it was cold, splashing it over her face.

Well, she wasn’t going to turn up in Molly’s sitting room looking thoroughly ravished by her son.

Even if it had been sort of nice.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope you enjoyed, and reviews are always sincerely appreciated.


	4. Mischief

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi all! Thank you all for the great support for this lil' fic, it really is fantastic and I sincerely appreciate the comments and kudos for it. This chapter was a bit of a hard one to get out which is why it's a day or so late, as I got it to my darling beta a bit later than I usually would. It is a bit of a monster though to make up for it - my sincere apologies!
> 
> Beta love: MissandMarauder, who stays up far too late listening to my wittering about this fic and my ideas for it, and is somehow just as excited about this story and where it is going as I am (and also appreciates my love of a good dash!)
> 
> On we go! I hope you enjoy this one, as it really hurt my heart to write in parts. 
> 
> Much love, 
> 
> MM-x

 

__

 

_She writhed on the floor, her body on fire._

_No, not on fire. Every inch of her body was being systematically twisted and balled, and currents of electricity shot through her nerves from her spine to every extremity over and over, like a mantra. It forced her muscles to seize and her head to snap back, cracking solidly on the wooden floor of the room in Malfoy Manor, her vision greying as she vaguely took in the ornate, vaulted ceiling and chandelier._

_“Tell me how you got the sword!” Bellatrix screamed over Hermione’s cries, and the girl shook her head and sobbed brokenly that she didn’t know. Then another round began, just as she thought the curse had run its course in a moment of blessed reprieve._

_The culminating effect though, if she was ever asked, was fire._

_Then of course, the curse stopped, and the shining knife floated above her vision._

_“Little Mudblood likes to play, does she?” Bellatrix cackled, a maniacal gleam in her grey eyes before she pounced, catlike, pinning down Hermione’s arm in her talon-like grip and a knee forced her ribcage down into the icy floor. The strange, gleeful expression fell from her face; suddenly fierce. “Well, the little Mudblood needs to learn her place!” She roared in Hermione’s face, spittle colliding with her horrifically over-sensitive skin, forcing her to break out into a fresh round of wracking sobs._  

_Bellatrix’s dark curls and pale face suddenly swung from her vision and Hermione felt the crushing weight of the woman disappear from her chest. Hope flared for just a moment in the young woman’s heart that she might be given some reprieve from her insanity, until she felt the burning, flaming tear of the cursed knife as it pressed into her forearm. M, “Itty-” U, “Bitty-” D, “Lying-” B, “Little-” L, “Mud-” O, “Blood-” O, “Bitch!” D. Bellatrix screeched, hissed, giggled, crowed in turn. Hermione could feel the hiss of magic with each letter, the blood leaking down her arm in a slowly swimming river that should surely prove that her blood was just like theirs. But no; it only served to fuel Bellatrix’s cruelty and insanity further as she smeared the liquid around with the handle of her knife._

_The cackling returned as her arm burned and her body burned with it. “There! Come, come Draco, look! Isn’t it beautiful? Would you like to curse her?” Hermione’s eyes barely opened to see Malfoy, who looked sick and genuinely horrified under his Aunt’s arm. “No? Pity, pity… as weak as your pathetic, worthless father. Crucio!”_

 

Hermione’s eyes flew open, panting hard as she woke from her nightmare. She was no longer forced to sit bolt upright from the painful ghost of the torture that haunted her, as she had been in the early days when the events were still fresh in her mind, but her covers were still knotted about her as she’d thrashed and writhed in her sleep. Ginny was knelt on the floor next to her, brown eyes full of pain as she held her hand, fingers stroking her skin gently where Hermione’s hand clutched her own. Her racing heart from the nightmare-memory of her torture began to ease and she pressed her eyes tightly closed, breathing through her nose until the swell of panic had been forced back into the box it was trying to climb out of, buried deeply within her brain once more.

“Shh, ‘Mione.” She whispered, “D’you want some Dreamless Sleep? I had it a bit after all that with… with Tom.” 

“Bad idea, really.” Hermione whispered back. “Addictive, if you take it too often. Actually I… I usually go and make a cup of tea and read for a bit, when they get bad like this. They’d settled down a bit but what with...”

Hermione paused, and shared a look with Ginny, who shuddered. _What with_ , indeed. Harry had received a very formal letter the night before, delivered by a great beast of an Eagle Owl, asking if he would be willing to testify at the Malfoy court hearing in three days’ time. Harry had written back very quickly saying that he was happy to speak on behalf of Narcissa, and to Hermione’s shock even Draco Malfoy, but had not a single kind word to say for Lucius Malfoy. He wanted that to be made clear before he went in to testify and if his words were going to be used to somehow exonerate Lucius, then he wouldn’t speak at all. His letter had been rather terse, even by Harry’s blunt standards, and Hermione wondered if they weren’t going to get an earful from the Minister himself about the proper way they should speak to members of the Ministry for Magic.

They had yet to hear from the Department of Magical Law Enforcement any further on the matter. Hermione somehow doubted they would unless it was a summons to court - and she’d said as much to Harry.

 

_“Well, if they summon me, we’ll know that they’ve agreed to my terms, won’t we?” He’d shrugged before picking up his pile of Exploding Snap cards. “Fancy a game, Ron?”_

 

“Was it _her_?” Ginny nodded to Hermione’s arm.

“It nearly always is. Sometimes the horcruxes, sometimes the Department of Mysteries but… usually B-Bellatrix.” Hermione forced herself to say the name, and the redhead offered her a lopsided smile.

“Well, Mum got her for you in the end, the mad bitch. Go make your tea; I’m going to go back to sleep if you don’t mind. Mum wants me on de-gnoming duty tomorrow.” Ginny pulled a face as she stood, crawling back into her own bed.

Hermione chuckled and slipped out of bed. “Thanks, Ginny. I’m so sorry for waking you. I’ll use silencing charms if I stay again - I’m sorry I forgot.” She leaned over to press a kiss to the girl’s cheek, only for Ginny to grab her wrist carefully but firmly.

“I’d rather know, Hermione. I know we all would. Let us be there for you? Please? Even if you don’t want to talk about the details just… let us be there.”

Hermione worried at her lip with her teeth before nodding once in acquiescence. “I can’t make any promises, Ginny, but I will try.”

“That’s all I ask for.” Ginny gave her hand a squeeze and then released her, snuggling down into her bed. Hermione pretended that she didn’t see the haunted look in the girl’s eyes as she left for the kitchen, closing the door to Ginny’s bedroom behind her with a click. She leaned back against the heavy wooden door with a quick huff of air escaping her lips, forced hard from her stomach in equal parts relief and guilt that she couldn’t open up to those closest to her. What frustrated her the most was that she wanted to - God, how she _wanted_ to - but the words stuck in her throat, caught in a net before they had a chance to break free. Sort of like delicate butterflies, captured before they’d had a chance to see the sunlight.

She really hoped Kingsley would come up with a counsellor’s name sooner rather than later.

Pushing herself upright, she eased herself down the stairs, delicately dancing over the one she knew creaked from years of practice sneaking down to the kitchen to plot with Harry and Ron in the kitchen, or sit with Ron and Ginny and devise some daring plan to free Harry from the Dursleys as soon as they could. Using her trusty bluebell fire charm, she held the dancing, elegant, painless flame in the palm of her hand before edging around the settee and stumbling into the kitchen. In the dim hue she grabbed an empty mason jar from a shelf and tipped the little flame inside; watching it expand with an almost maternal fondness until it filled the whole kitchen with a soft, atmospheric glow.

“You could sell that, Granger. Make a fortune as a reading light or something.” A hoarse voice caught her attention and her head snapped up.

“George.” She breathed. “What… what on earth…?”

“Same reason as you, I ‘spect.” He shrugged, slumping forward over the dining table worn smooth with age and use. His hair flopped forwards, covering his eyes slightly as they slanted upwards to meet hers, his chin resting on his folded arms. “Forgot your silencing charm, Hermione.” He told her with frank understanding. “Poor form.”

“I know.” She found herself replying as she put the kettle on. “Would you like a brew?”

“Seeing as you’re making. Milk with two.” Hermione wrinkled her nose and George chuckled at her expression. “Don’t give me that look, Miss Perfect Prefect. I remember your addiction to Sugar Quills.”

Hermione floundered, a flush stealing her cheeks as the spoon she held clattered against the mug she was spooning George’s sugar into. “I didn’t realise you noticed.” That would have required his presence in the library, or at one of the work desks in the Gryffindor common room for any extended length of time.

“‘Course I did. I nicked one every now and again when I was still attempting to do schoolwork before our grand escape. Stopped you chewing on your actual quills when you were thinking, right? Kept a big old bag of them on your desk in the library.” He held up his glass to her then in a mock toast. “To Hogwarts, Granger.” And downed the remaining contents. Hermione frowned as she took a long look at the scene before her.

George was sat in an old Gryffindor Quidditch jersey and his pyjama bottoms, hair dishevelled as if he had attempted to sleep but tossed and turned the entire night. Heavy shadows hung under his eyes and stubble coated his jaw - no longer artfully as it had seemed earlier in the week at Ginny’s party but now that of a man who had simply lost the will to keep up with shaving. In front of him sat a bottle of Firewhisky. It was mostly empty but for the dregs that swilled in the bottom as George’s glass collided with the table, and at the same as the glass thudded heavily the kettle whistled, signalling the water for tea was ready.

She should berate him. She should bollock him till kingdom come for being a lush, she knew. But somehow, Hermione also knew that doing so would only make the situation worse, and wouldn’t actually solve the problem in front of her - a drunk and despondent George Weasley.

And it wouldn’t help the curiosity that bubbled inside of her as she eyed the Firewhisky cautiously, almost as if it might bite her, whilst she threw teabags into mugs and measured sugar into George’s.

“Does it help?” She nodded towards the bottle, pouring the hot water into each mug with precision.

“Sometimes helps me sleep. Sometimes makes me forget what I’ve remembered when I do sleep.” He held up the bottle in his hand, staring at it as if it was both his saviour and his curse. Perhaps it was. “I don’t want to forget him, Granger, but when I remember it hurts so much I can barely breathe.”

She knew it was the drink talking, but hell if she was going to stop him if he was opening up to someone, even if it was her. Perhaps it was because it _was_ her - someone safe. Someone he didn’t really know all that well other than of her bossy Prefect nature, his little brother’s girlfriend, his little sister’s best friend. They’d never been particularly close, which meant that he could admit things to her that he might not to someone who knew him better - who knew what it meant for him to be saying these things, admitting how he felt. So Hermione remained silent, adding milk to his tea and stirring until it looked just the right shade of builder’s brew that she expected was probably what he liked. She added a splash into her own before placing the steaming mug before him, sitting down in a chair that was close enough that their knees brushed beneath the table.

Perhaps… perhaps she could do the same.

“I dreamed about this.” Hermione reached out her bare arm and ran a finger over the slur on her arm. “When I do, the scar sometimes burns as badly as if it was happening again, and when I wake up I expect to see it bleeding.” She traced the letters one by one, imagining the knife that carved them and the eyes that shone bright with evil as she convulsed on the floor. She shuddered and drew her fingertips away, grasping her mug and taking a steadying sip. Her eyes flew open as she felt another hand on her arm tracing the letters, before drawing an imaginary line through them and a letter ‘T’ with a circle around it.

“ _Troll for effort; must try harder, Bella_. Can’t take down our girl with a silly word.” George stared into her eyes, his palm pressing over the word to cover it. They were slightly bloodshot but the cerulean hue was still bright and clear, and Hermione felt her lips quirk upwards.

“ _Mrs. Lestrange, please see me after the lesson. Terrible penmanship, please do not complete assignments with a cursed knife._ ” She giggled into her mug slightly hysterically at the ridiculous thought.

“There, see? Every time you have a nightmare, imagine McGonagall dressing her down for her terrible work. I could even get you some Daydream charms from the shop if you like - won’t charge you for the first few, either.” He offered, a winning smile on his face that so closely resembled that of his previous life, Hermione felt hope flare in her chest.

“Are you going to open again?”

“I’ve been doing owl-order for the last week or so. Testing the waters, y’know?” George became more subdued, his hand disappearing from her arm to cup his mug. “It’s just… without _him_ , nothing feels right. It feels like I’m sailing half a ship, and the rest of it is dragging behind me, slowly sinking under. I’m shit scared of what is going to happen when it finally breaks away.”

“Have you thought about asking one of your brothers to help you out?” Hermione blurted out before the thought had fully formed. “Or Lee?”

George blinked and shook his head. “It’s always been just the two of us against the school, against Umbridge, against our mum, against the world. And now it's just… just me.”

“You know…” Hermione began thoughtfully, suddenly realising a path that might work in her favour. “The Marauders were never just two. There were four of them - Moony, Wormtail, Padfoot and Prongs. Perhaps it might be time for you to branch out a bit and expand your empire of madness.” She paused, and then added for good measure, “If you tell anyone I’ve said this, I will hurt you - I know more inventive hexes than you think, George Weasley.” Hermione threatened, trying to make her face as serious and as _Prefect Granger_ as she possibly could.

“You don’t scare me, Hermione.” George chuckled darkly, eying her with a slight roll of his eyes.  

“Oh? Did I ever tell you about the time that I kept Rita Skeeter in a jar for a month?” Hermione maintained her expression of blank coolness, only raising one eyebrow. She hoped that McGonagall would be proud of her.

George blinked, and then leaned further over the table, his brooding darkness seemingly forgotten for a moment as he stared at her with wide eyes. “You… You’ve been holding out on us!” He spluttered, and Hermione felt another blushing grin creep up on her cheeks as George eyed her thoughtfully, finally breaking through her facade. “You know… I could use some help making up some of the owl-orders, if you reckon you can learn the spells quick enough.”

It was Hermione’s turn to choke on her tea as she took a sip. “George Weasley! I’m a Prefect!”

“Yeah, and? You’re scarily smart, terrifying with a wand, and clearly, you’ve got a knack for mischief that you’ve been keeping secret. C’mon, it’ll be fun!”

Hermione couldn’t help but be drawn into his infectious enthusiasm as he bounced in his chair, his knees knocking against hers. She chewed on her lip for a moment before placing her mug on the table carefully, resting her chin in one hand as she examined the man before her. “Look, there have to be rules. I still need to read all of the textbooks for the coming year...”

“Which you can do in your sleep.” He rolled his eyes. “Pull the other one.”

“...And I’m not working with you if you’ve been drinking.” She pointedly looked at the bottle. “It’s dangerous, George. You know it is. Spellwork and alcohol don’t mix at the best of times, let alone at the level of your spellcrafting and potioneering.”

His face fell for a moment as his eyes landed on the bottle of Firewhisky that stood between them on the table; the metaphorical elephant in the room, but also the physical reminder of all that he had lost and all that he was having to remind himself of whenever he worked on his products. “You don’t know what you’re asking, Granger.”

“You’re right, how can I?” She picked up the bottle and drained the contents in one gulp, the burn bringing tears to her eyes but the glow of it bringing her a warmth that she couldn’t deny felt incredibly good. A warmth it would be very easy to get lost in, Hermione realised, and she placed the empty bottle down carefully, picking at the label until it tore away. She began to shred it, creating fluttering flakes of paper that danced downward like tears to the tabletop as she bitterly remembered her own stinging loss. “My parents currently live in Australia, and they don’t have the foggiest who I am because I put them under a memory charm to forget me. Unless I can find them and reverse it, which will be incredibly difficult, they may as well be dead to me. But of course, I’ve no idea what it’s like to lose someone and want to forget everything.”

Hermione raised her eyes from the pile of shredded label and stared firmly at George, daring him to say anything in retaliation. “Merlin _fuck_ , Granger.” He whispered at last before sitting back, closing his eyes tiredly and pinching the bridge of his nose sharply in a pained gesture. Knowing all too well the sensation of tension and that it wouldn’t ease no matter the pressure he applied there, Hermione reached out and drew his hand from his face, linking their fingers together. If George was surprised or bothered by the action or closeness he didn’t say anything, but instead tightened the grip with his own hand as they sat in silence, drinking the remainder of their tea before it cooled. It wasn’t awkward, but contemplative, and Hermione wondered just what was going through his head as his eyes darted between her face, their hands, the bottle, his mug, and around the room in a whirling-dervish of motion that surely had to be making him feel dizzy.

Finally, his eyes snapped to hers and he nodded once. “Fine. Okay. I can’t promise I will be able to be anything other than I am… but I promise I’ll try to… back off a bit.”

Hermione couldn’t help but notice the mirror of her conversation with Ginny, with no small amount of irony. “That’s all I ask.”

“Fair enough, Granger.” George offered a lopsided smile then, his head tilting a little. “I know what you did with your parents, well, that’s not strictly this side of legal so....” He zipped his lips shut and pretended to throw away the key over his shoulder. “But if you need any help, let me know. Bill knows a couple of Australian Cursebreakers from when he was over in Egypt - they might be able to help you with the memory charms when you’ve tracked your parents down. They’d probably charge you - that sort always does - but Bill always said they’re damn good at what they do. Saved his arse a couple of times. If they can’t help, they’ll probably know a guy who knows a guy, if you catch my drift.”

Hermione’s throat tightened, and she swallowed hard before bobbing her head once at his thoughtfulness despite how low he must be feeling in that moment. “Thanks, George. I’ll keep it in mind if… well, if I find them I suppose.”

“Don’t do that.” He snapped then, his face darkening. “Don’t say _if_. This whole mess of a war has done so much bloody awful bollocks to you, so don’t you start with the hopelessness on this. It _can’t_ be ‘if’, Granger. It’ll be ‘when’, and you will deserve to get them back and have all the love in the world that they can give you. Right?” George gripped her hand tighter. “Promise me you won’t give up hope. Don’t end up like me.”

How was it even possible he was able to see such hope? George Weasley, who had lost the person who was closer to him than perhaps a husband or wife ever could be, closer than any other brother or sister, someone with whom he had shared almost every waking and sleeping moment. He was trying to instil her with all the goodness and optimism he had, even if he didn’t seem to have any left for himself. Hermione stared at him, unsure how she could get the man before to see just how wonderful his life could be if he allowed himself the chance to truly grieve and allow those around him to help him through his loss.

But somehow, for whatever reason, George had chosen to let her in, and she had to make sure she didn’t waste the opportunity to do with it whatever she could before he closed himself off again.

“There are worse things to be than you, George Weasley; that I sincerely promise you.” Hermione stood as George gave a rasping, disbelieving chuckle, releasing their still-clasped hands to wrap a friendly arm around his shoulder. “Now, go get some sleep. You have spells and potions to teach me tomorrow, and I’m a very thorough study. I’ll be making notes and asking the most irritating questions I possibly can, so you’ll need to be on your game.”

 

xxxXxxx

 

When Hermione descended the stairs for breakfast a little before eight the following morning after her slightly more restful sleep, she certainly hadn’t expected to see George sat there, clean-shaven and allowing his mother to trim his hair magically, fussing over him as he leaned back over the chair with a dust-pan floating around him, catching the discarded hair. It was only a start, Hermione told herself, and nothing to get too excited over - but it was something, and it was something that was doing his mother good, too, based on the flush she wore and the constant, small cuddles she was giving her son.

“Oh, Hermione dear! Breakfast will be just a moment.” Molly positively beamed. “I’m running just a little late this morning.”

“That’s quite alright, Mrs. Weasley.” Hermione grinned back in return, catching the _Prophet_ owl as it fluttered to the window and offered it the necessary coins before flinging the paper onto the table for whoever wished to read it.

“Put the kettle on, Granger? You make a mean cuppa.” Hermione narrowed her eyes as George blinked lazily at her. Mrs. Weasley frowned and hit her son firmly with the comb.

“Manners cost nothing, George.”

“Merlin, woman, and you call yourself my mother? Battery and assault - oi!” He squawked again as she repeated the action. “Okay, okay! _Please_ could you put the kettle on, Granger?”

“Yes, of course I can.” Hermione returned in a syrupy tone, locating the largest teapot the Weasleys owned in preparation for the breakfast rush and set about making tea for the brood. She had just set it down in the middle of the dining table when breakfast was at last complete and George’s hair was fully trimmed and styled neatly -  though still longer than Mrs. Weasley would have liked - and had just poured a cup for herself and George when the family started trooping down sleepily for breakfast ten minutes later.

Breakfast was always a noisy affair in the Weasley household, Hermione had often noted - with Arthur happily greeting everyone in his booming voice as he entered, dressed for work, and the chattering of responses drowning out everyone else as they responded. Percy was dressed for the Ministry too, though he still looked awkward and seemed a little out of place in the jostling family environment he’d secluded himself from for too long. However, it seemed to be doing him good, as he smiled a lot more and even took the gentle ribbing from Ron, and Charlie when he came home from Romania, with good grace.

“Hem-hem.” George stood, doing a horrible impression of Dolores Umbridge which earned him a round of amused, and slightly disconcerted looks and groans as he raised his teacup. “Sorry.” He grinned at Harry who looked almost ready to hex him, and Hermione shared a grimace with her best friends at the memory. “I just wanted to say that I’ve got the owl-post side of Weasleys’ Wizard Wheezes back up and running and… I’VE CORRUPTED GRANGER! I’VE CORRUPTED GRANGER!”

Hermione, vaguely horrified, buried her head in her hands as George began to dance around the kitchen, chanting the phrase over and over maniacally before dragging her up, swinging her into a clumsy waltz that had everyone laughing despite their utter befuddlement at what he actually meant by the repeated words.

“Sorry George, but I think Ron and Harry already did that.” Ginny chuckled, lobbing a piece of toast at her brother’s head. Both Harry and Ron nodded their agreement around mouthfuls of bacon sandwich and Hermione wondered just how thoroughly George planned to hold this over her. Probably far too long, if he had his way. Still - it would be worth it if it meant he got back on his feet a little quicker, and smiled just that little bit more.

“Oh no, little sister. You see, I required help in order to create more stock for WWW, and our dear Hermione Granger has delightfully agreed.” George gestured to Hermione with a sweeping bow, like a conductor to the orchestra. Ron and Harry’s mouths dropped open, jaws hanging wide, and Ginny veritably smirked at the pair of them as if she had seen the event coming a mile off.

“Delightfully is such a _strong_ word, George Weasley, and I’d say it was more like acquiesced.” Hermione muttered, earning a snort from what sounded like Charlie, or perhaps even Percy.

“Technicalities, technicalities. Now, if we’re quite done with breakfast, I’m whisking her away before she has a chance to change her mind. Family!” He waved in farewell and tucked Hermione into his side before taking his wand in hand and apparating them away with the familiar tug behind her navel before she could even blink. When her feet collided with solid ground she pitched forward, almost dragging George with her, but he anchored her upright as he laughed at her disorientation whilst she clung on to him for dear life.

“Could give a girl some warning, you prat!” Hermione smacked him solidly in the chest, which only seemed to make him laugh harder.

“Oh, Granger, side-along really isn’t for you, is it? Take a good look ‘round, once you get your bearings you’ll be able to get yourself here whenever we need to without hanging on to my coattails.” George chuckled still, and let Hermione go to do just that when he was sure she wouldn’t either stagger sideways or throw up.

Her eyes widened as she took in the room, the wide space phenomenal. Potion benches lined one side with a range of different cauldrons neatly stacked depending on material, with space for someone to move between the rows to stir and add ingredients. On the other side were simple, empty tables which Hermione assumed were for charm work and other spellcasting, and a high-ceiling soared above her that disappeared into beamed rafters. The walls were painted a simple, clean white which made the room seem even more spacious. It was the most incredible laboratory she’d ever seen; and had the dungeons at Hogwarts been like this, she would have been much happier in potions lessons.

“This is the lab. We don’t do testing here, this is purely for manufacture once we’ve got… once _I’ve_ got the products right. Once we get to this stage, very little tends to go wrong unless we… _I’m_ not paying attention properly when casting or brewing. Fuck it!” George stopped short, leaning heavily against one of the empty tables and closing his eyes. His breathing was shallow, and his fists were tightly clenched as if he were fighting the urge to hit something, cry, scream, or find something to drink - or perhaps all four.

Hermione didn’t move, letting George work through the difficulty of someone else being in the space that he’d only ever shared with Fred. She could imagine with very little difficulty the two of them in this room - one on either side. It was so clearly designed for two, balanced equally for two halves of a whole. It was no wonder, really, that he struggled to be in the room alone when it would seem so empty and bereft of the life that had once filled it joyfully. Carefully, she moved to stand next to him, bumping shoulders with him so her presence wasn’t a surprise when she finally spoke.

“We don’t have to do anything today, you know. It’s enough that you’ve let me this far.” Hermione said quietly to George. “Or you can just give me notes and I’ll find somewhere in Grimmauld to set up my own lab.”

“Don’t be bloody daft. This was made to be used. It’s just… it was ours. Our escape from Umbridge. This was the first thing we built with the money from Harry. If you go through that door there, you get into the shop.” He pointed to the door on the right. “And if you go through that door there…” He pointed to the door on the left of the room, near the potions benches. “... That’s our flat.” His voice trailed off as he looked at the floor, kicking his foot against the stone flooring.

Hermione grimaced. “I’ve not been back to my parents’ house, either. It’s not the same, I know, but it felt like a haunted house when I was leaving it. If you ever want anything and you know it’s in there… just let me know. I mean, if you want.” She stammered, realising how presumptuous she’d sounded.

George’s head snapped up, eyes sweeping from the floor at last. “Thanks, Hermione.”

“You never call me Hermione.” She felt her face redden. “It sounds so… strange.”

“Fine, I can call you Granger if you like.” George’s brows rose with amusement. “Bit odd though, if we’re working together, and I _have_ known you for seven years. And you always call me George.” He pointed out.

“I know, but it just caught me off guard.” Hermione imagined calling George by his surname only to have the entire Weasley clan pop their heads up like meerkats - the image made her giggle out loud.

“Glad I can amuse you without saying anything at all, Hermione.” George snorted, the tension broken as he pushed himself away from the bench at last.

“Yes, your face does that.”

“Oh, _thanks_. For that, you get to start on WonderWitch products. Go on, you’ll need the silver cauldrons and everything you’ll need to do is in that book on the shelf below the cauldron stacks. You won’t really need any help, they’re all pretty simple - barely need O.W.L level potions skills for them.” He gestured to the obnoxiously pink folder which made Hermione grimace, and George wagged a finger at her. “That’s what you get for being a sarcastic little witch, Miss Perfect Prefect. I’ll go get the ingredients for the Flirting Fancies, and then if you can stomach it you can make some of the Kissing Concoction.”

“Oh, that’s disgusting!” Hermione cried after him as he entered the door that led into the shop, shaking her head before hauling the pink folder out from underneath the counter and finding the recipe for Flirting Fancies. The potion really did seem easy, and thankfully quick enough, so she laid out the cauldrons and set the water base the potion required to heat before knotting her hair up into a bun above her head with her wand.

Tapping her hands on the table she found the room far too silent, and after a few minutes she finally relented and dug into her pocket for the beaded bag she still carried with her. Digging around in it, Hermione finally found what she was after and with a small mumble of ‘a-ha!’ she drew out a Muggle radio and placed it on the free counter behind her, the batteries charged not too long ago by Mr. Weasley in one of his contraptions in such a way that they would never lose power. Flicking it on, she twiddled with the receiver until she tuned into Radio 1 which played whatever was popular in the Muggle charts. Presenters were chatting as she continued checking and preparing work stations for the ingredients she’d need, and she tuned out most of the background noise until the strains of music she recognised drew her from her ministrations.

A grin slowly flourished across her face. Eying the door carefully for movement from George, Hermione withdrew her wand from her hair and began to sing in time to the radio. _Hell is gone and heaven’s here, there’s nothing left for you to fear, shake your arse, come over here, now scream! I’m a burnin’ effigy of everything I used to be, you’re my rock of empathy, my dear!_

“So come on, let me entertain you!” Hermione sang into her wand, dancing between the cauldrons at a volume that was probably going to bring George running, but she was having a little too much fun letting go. “LET ME ENTERTAIN YOU!” She jumped around in circles, her hair a cloud of curls around her that she knew she would have no hope of containing, but the song was so infectiously fun and she was finally alone for a moment, and able to let go like she might have done at home when her parents had gone to work for the day. It was a moment of pure elation; glittering happiness like a bright flame in the darkness that so often haunted her.

She shrieked as she felt two hands grasp her shoulders firmly, stopping her manic bouncing, her wand sending up a flash of white sparks between them that George leaned back from with a devilish grin. “Having fun, Hermione?”

“Erm…” She flushed sheepishly, “...Yes?”

“Good! But can you change this rot? This isn’t real music.”

“I beg your pardon? Robbie Williams is brilliant!” Her hands flew to her hips, brows rising in protest at his words.

“If that’s your definition of brilliant, then we need to have some serious words. Hey, this one’s alright!” He perked up as a string part started and Hermione’s nose wrinkled.

“The Verve I think. It’s called Bittersweet Symphony but it’s been played a lot, so I’m a bit sick of hearing it.” She grimaced but found herself humming along anyway, finding her knife and the ingredients George had brought. “What are you going to work on?”

“Daydream charms. They’re a best-seller. Once you’ve made those, it would be good if we could throw together some Skiving Snackboxes if they don’t offend your Perfect Prefect sensibilities too badly.” George winked from across the room, boxes laid out before him with small glass vials that he was flicking inside with his wand with rapid-fire precision. Hermione paused in her knifework to simply watch, leaning on the bench with the utmost fascination. It was somewhat like watching Professor Snape brew - the way he fixated on his task with the absolute dedication required to complete the action was a little hypnotising.

“Hermione, I know I’m _incredibly_ handsome but if you could get on with the brewing, that’d be great.” George snorted, barely looking up from his work.

“Oh, shut up! It’s just fascinating watching you work. It’s brilliant magic, really!” She exclaimed.

That _did_ make him stop. “You… you really think it’s brilliant?” He looked so hopeful, kind of like a puppy, and his ears went red like Ron’s did when she nodded, her smile flashing the teeth that had been magically shrunk years before that made smiling so much more pleasant less the nerve-wracking activity it had been in her teens. “That kind of means a lot more than you probably think it does, Hermione.”

“I doubt that. You’ve enough ego that your head will barely fit through the door.” She chuckled, and went back to her brewing, losing herself in the repetitive motions and the sound of the Muggle music, often humming or singing along when the mood took her. Her hair began to frizz in the humidity of the cauldrons and the rosy steam from the heavily-scented brew, and she re-knotted it with her wand in expert movements before returning to her quick stirs and well-timed additions. One particularly cheesy, catchy pop song had her singing again out loud, swinging her hips as she stirred in time to the beat. Truth be told the words to the chorus weren’t really words at all but rather sounds, but Hermione had heard it on the radio whilst on the run and she’d quite liked it ever since.

“Mmmbop, ba duba dop ba du bop, ba duba dop ba du bop, ba duba dop ba du, yeah..”

“Okay, _no.”_ George slammed his wand down. “I listened to that Robbie bloke with some tolerance, but I’m putting my foot down at whatever the toss this is. This is utter rot, ‘Mione. There’s got to be better Muggle music out there than whatever the buggering Godric this is.”

Hermione was flicking the flames off from the cauldrons to allow the potions to cool so they could be formed into Fancies, and she raised a single brow. “By all means, George. You find me some Muggle music you like, and I’ll find some I like, and we can swap tastes. How about that?”

“Shake on it. A deal’s not a deal ‘til you exchange handshakes.” George leaned over the potions bench, holding out his outstretched palm with a smirk.

“Deal.”  Hermione agreed, shaking his hand.

“Great!” George exclaimed, Hermione noticing a slightly worrying sparkle in his eyes returning that clearly meant trouble - a ghost of one, she remembered, that she had seen far too often before a prank during his Hogwarts years. “Pack those up into boxes, and then you’re taking me out in Muggle London. No time like the present!”

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope you enjoyed this mammoth of a chapter! Please let me know what you think, and have a great week. 
> 
> For reference, the songs I mentioned are Mmmbop by Hanson and Let Me Entertain You by Robbie Williams, and Bittersweet Symphony by The Verve. Mmmbop was in the charts in February and March of 1998, Bittersweet Symphony charted in May, and Let Me Entertain You was topping the charts in June so all three would be making lots of noise on BBC Radio 1 at that time. I am an English 90's girl so this is my music, kids! I was rocking my Spice Girls posters, my obsession with Aqua and Steps was legendary, and Robbie is my baby to this day. I note that the Wombles and Mr Blobby were also in the charts at the time - we will NOT be exploring those particular creatures.


	5. Mugglish

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi everyone!
> 
> Oh my gosh! The amazing reviews for the last chapter blew me away, seriously. A lot of people said it was their favourite so far - it's mine too so I'm glad you all liked it so much! Apologies for the delay in this one - I had a bit of a block on it and so I wrote a one-shot called Silence which you should go check out if you haven't already. It isn't pairing-centric but it's all the feels, so let me know what you think! 
> 
> Beta love: MissandMarauder - thank you my love, you're brilliant. Couldn't do this without you, and your wonderful ideas. This chapter in particular is dedicated to you, because you know just the ways in which George can get himself into mischief.
> 
> Onwards! Hope you enjoy.
> 
> Love always,
> 
> MM-x

 

 

This was going to go horribly. Hermione could feel it in her bones she was so sure. A bouncing George Weasley leading her through Diagon Alley with single-minded resoluteness towards the Leaky Cauldron could only end one way, and that was badly. The only thing she could do would be to try and mitigate as much of the damage as possible and try and uphold the Statute of Secrecy whilst she was at it.

Hopefully, she wouldn't need to use too many memory charms this time. She'd not been into Muggle London since the war, and she'd needed to be rather liberal with her  _Obliviates_  then. She shuddered at the memory, the unpleasant thought of the ridiculous hulk of a Viking Thorfinn Rowle and twisted Antonin Dolohov making the scar at her side tingle - a phantom reminder of the old curse that would never truly leave her.

"George, are you really sure this is the best plan?" She asked, uncertainty milling in her stomach, eying his dragonhide boots sceptically whilst crossing her fingers that the Muggles would just think they were some fancy sort of leather. The rest of him, thank God, was mostly presentable; an  _actual_  leather jacket that she had a sneaking suspicion might have once belonged to Sirius Black, faded blue jeans and a Weird Sisters t-shirt that she hoped no Muggle tried to do any searching for in HMV or on the internet which was growing in popularity and use at an alarming rate.

"'Course I am. I've been into Muggle London a few times before, y'know. I'm not completely useless." He turned back to flash her a winning smile. They were inside the pub now and heading towards the brick wall that acted as a gateway between the two worlds, the dim lighting making the atmosphere seem warm and comforting as they wove through the steady stream of people coming into the Leaky from London during the lunchtime rush. As if sensing her hesitance George dragged her towards the wall before she could protest again, and then in a blink of an eye they were on the bustling pavement of the city that Hermione knew so well. It was still fairly early in the day, only just past lunch really, and so they had plenty of time to kill before they would be missed at the Burrow. Hermione wondered what Harry and Ron must be thinking about her mad escapades in pranking with George - they probably thought she was going 'round the twist. Perhaps she was, a little. Her eyes danced longingly over the brick archway that led back towards Diagon Alley and she nodded to herself with a slight grimace. Yes, definitely going 'round the bend.

"Right, this way." She said with a great deal more conviction than she felt, taking them further onto Charing Cross Road. It was busy - packed with Muggles going about their working day, or on their lunch hour making an escape from cramped offices into the relative freedom of the city streets. The narrow road was lined with a mix of old, squat and new, towering buildings from end to end. Some with shop-fronts offered anything from musical instruments to tacky London tourist gifts; others promised all sorts of antiquities and diamonds in the rough just waiting to be found, hidden away in little alcoves and aging, peeling doors. Hermione knew the street well, she'd been here so many times and had spent hours wandering from bookstore to bookstore - from  _Quinto's_  to  _Any Amount of Books_ , and then from  _Any Amount_ , of course, on to  _Henry Pordes_. They'd been her favourites, though she'd not shunned any of the artistic bookshops either - or any of the more specialised shops, though only when she was older did she understand the true significance of  _Silver Moon_ , the women's bookshop. Some of them were gone now, of course, eaten up by the bigger chains like Blackwell's, but so many of them still remained and were doing a roaring trade. Quinto's was always her last stop in Muggle London with her parents before entering Diagon Alley to collect her school things, and she'd always been treated to a book or two - _no more_ , her mum had said rather sternly, considering she was going to come back from Diagon with quite a haul to get through anyway - so a fleeting smile captured her face as she passed the worn, forest-green storefront.

_Good memories_ , she thought. Good memories that she could keep, and hopefully share one day once more with the parents that helped to create them.

"Right, so, where are we going then, Granger?"

"Oh, back to Granger is it, George?" She rolled her eyes. "So much for calling me Hermione, then!"

"Sorry, old habits and all that." George looked sheepish, copper hair falling into his eyes to hide the evidence of his amusement. "Still, where are we off to?"

"I thought we might get the Tube up to Camden Town, actually. Great markets, interesting shops, some lovely tea and coffee rooms… all sorts of things to explore, and I thought I could pick up a birthday present for Harry whilst I was there if anything catches my eye. Then once we're done there we can wander around for a while, and hopefully not get into  _too_  much trouble." Hermione eyed him speculatively as his eyes lit up at the mention of the underground railway.

"I've heard of the Tube! That's the trains that go underground, right? Mug… _People_ pack themselves in like sardines to get around London." He corrected himself quickly at Hermione's wide-eyed, frantic look when he almost saidMugglesout-loud, and rather too enthusiastically loudly too. "Bugger, sorry Hermione. Try to be careful, right-o."

"Hmm." She raised an eyebrow but said little more on the subject, instead patting her pocket to reassure herself that her wand was securely tucked there just in case. "Anyway,  _yes_ , the Tube is the underground rail system. We can get day tickets that we can re-use until midnight and hop on and off inside the limits of the London Underground network. They aren't too expensive, so I can buy those for us and then we can head up to Camden."

"Brilliant. Can we get some lunch when we get there? I'm  _starving!_ " George exclaimed, rubbing at his abdomen with a slight grimace. "Can you hear that, 'Mione? That's my stomach eating itself slowly."

"Weasleys! You're all the bloody same, I swear." She rolled her eyes, flicking her hair back as they marched down the street, weaving in and out of the shoppers that were gazing in ancient windows and pointing out items to their friends or family. "Hollow legs."

"Excellent metabolisms." George corrected as his eyes roved the street, barely focussing on one thing for a moment before moving on to the next. "This is so bloody cool, I forgot how ace London is…" His head continued to dart around from one thing to the next like a child at Christmas, and more than once Hermione had to gently direct him away from the path of oncoming pedestrians or even traffic when he strayed just a little too close to the road for comfort. There were things to  _see!_  There were things to  _point at!_ There were so many things to talk about and ask questions about, and though Hermione tried her very best to keep up, his rapid-fire questions were coming so quickly that she barely had time to get an answer out before the next one was flying from his mouth, almost certainly entirely unrelated to the one before it.

The station was even worse.

"George,  _come on_! Through the barrier, on to the northbound platform. Stop  _looking_  at things, good Godric!" She hissed in his ear as she shoved the ticket she'd bought him in his hands and pushed him forwards. He had the worst attention span she'd ever known, perhaps even worse than Ron's, but at least he was interested in the Muggle world and was trying to take all of it in. That made Hermione grin despite her bubbling frustration, and she followed him through the barrier with a bounce in her step before her eyes widened as a ginger head disappeared around the corner and out of sight… under the southbound signage.

"WRONG WAY, GEORGE WEASLEY! NORTHBOUND!" She shouted at the top of her lungs over the hum of the tracks and chatter of crowds; but if he responded, Hermione didn't hear it. Only the throng of London responded to her cry.

Well, bugger.

 

* * *

**xxxXxxx**

* * *

 

"Well, that wasn't so bad!"

"Apart from nearly losing you to the wrong side of London," Hermione said drily as they climbed the steps out of the Underground into the middle of Camden Town. "Even though I did say Northbound a number of times prior to entering the station..."

"Only one ear, 'Mione. Got to say it louder, these days." George grinned brightly, tapping the side of his head with a conspiratorial wink.

"...  _And_  you nearly went straight down the gap between the platform and the train! Nearly gave me a heart-attack, you sod!" She smacked him solidly on the arm in lieu of the good stinging hex that she might otherwise have employed. "'I'm not completely useless', my backside, George Weasley!"

"Okay, that was right scary, I'll give you that." He admitted. "Would have been holey  _and_ legless… and not in my usual, metaphorical sense." He chuckled at his own terrible joke, earning another vicious swat.

"Shut up, George. Let's go feed those hollow legs of yours, shall we? I could do with a gallon of tea to calm my nerves after your little performance," she grumbled, earning a whoop and a looped arm through hers, the man beside her fairly dragging her along the street, eying up the various street vendors and attractions with reckless abandon.

Camden was always teeming with life. There were bars and clubs everywhere, but smaller coffee shops and cafes too, all lining the streets up to the market and into the market itself. The waft of coffee was everywhere and Hermione considered buying several bags, freshly ground, just so she could have a good cup at home rather than the terrible instant coffee Harry insisted on buying from the supermarket whenever he did a shop. Finally picking a place that looked cosy and inviting, Hermione and George slipped inside the door out of the summer heat and slipped into one of the wooden booths with brightly coloured cushions, sparkling, multi-coloured glass shades hanging on the lights over their heads. The waft of hookah smoke occasionally drifted from another nearby table, adding a heady, sweet scent to the air as well as swirling blue plumes. It was certainly exotic, though Hermione did rather disapprove of the idea of smoking - it really wasn't all that healthy. Shrugging, she picked up the tea and cake menu and started flicking through it, fingers dancing over the options gleefully as her own stomach rumbled.

"Have you ever had one of those before?" George eyed the hookah pipe as a waitress took one past him to a small party who were sat together on beanbags on the floor. "Saw them in Egypt when we went with the prize money Dad won, but Mum wouldn't let us try one."

"Let me guess - you did anyway?" Hermione rolled her eyes as George grinned, taking a pipe menu from the holder and running his eyes down it.

"'Course we did. Me and Freddie snuck out one night with Bill and Charlie after dinner to the beach. We spent hours going through different flavours, and they even let us have a couple of beers each - the height of cool for a fifteen-year-old boy, obviously. Strawberry was Fred's favourite, I think." He said, his tone becoming slightly wistful and face cloudy. "Strange the things you remember, innit?"

Hermione bit her lip with a nod, eyes narrowing slightly before she placed her tea menu down. "Well… get one then. They're not too expensive, are they?"  _And it was better than finding solace in the bottom of a bottle of Ogden's finest_ , she reasoned internally as his expression cleared little by little.

"I don't know. How much is…" He narrowed his blue eyes at the menu, their colour darkening in the dimmer lighting of the tea room-come-shisha lounge, "...Five, I'm guessing here, pounds? That's what, erm..." he mouthed the word  _'Muggles_ ', clearly not wanting to even whisper the word, which she found vaguely amusing given the fact that there was music playing and their chance of being overheard was slim, "... use, right?"

Hermione giggled, nodding as she leaned over the table to look at the menu. "Yes, five pounds. That's a little bit less than a galleon. I'll front it, you can owe me it back if you like. Now, pick what drinks you want and I'll flag down a waitress."

Two pots of steaming chai, an enormous bowl of cheesy chips that they shared, the biggest slices of Victoria sponge Hermione had ever seen, and a rather lot of coercing later, Hermione found herself holding a shisha pipe in her hands dubiously as George egged her on with waggling eyebrows. She'd tried cigarettes in France, of course, rather on the sly with some of the French boys and girls she'd made friends with on holiday by the beach - her parents had trusted her well enough to spend time with them without getting into much trouble. They'd encouraged the prim and proper English girl with exactly the same expression as George wore now, she realised, and she hoped she didn't make quite as much a fool of herself as she had that very first time.

"You are a terrible influence." She muttered, pointing the mouthpiece of the pipe at him as she might do her wand, if she could only slip it out of her pocket.

"But imagine Freddie's face if he could see you now. He'd be having a  _riot_  watching Perfect Prefect Granger smoking shisha and dragging a poor, unsuspecting, uninitiated bloke around London town." He grinned winningly at her - the first time he'd truly grinned whilst speaking of the loss of his twin, which only made her feel even more inclined to just bloody do it. She raised the mouthpiece to her lips and George began to coach her again. "Okay, just take a small breath in, and don't take it back into your lungs for now, right? Keep it in your mouth."

She did as she was told, jumping at the loud bubbling from the pipe, but continued taking a steady breath until a sweet, fruity, slightly smoky flavour danced across her tongue. She quickly breathed out, a small stream of smoke flowing outward from her lips and she chuckled as George offered a silent round of applause. "That's… actually quite nice." She licked her lips, and then tried again, growing more confident as each small inhalation passed. Her brain was at civil war - on the one hand, she knew that  _smoking_ was terribly bad for you, but on the other having George reminisce about his brother with a smile and without dark shadows beneath his eyes was something she just wasn't willing to pass up.

The 'other hand' won out.

"Hermione Granger: shisha smoker, trouble-maker." George snorted. "Ronniekins is going to need to keep an eye on you. Soon it'll be pranking in the corridors and riding on flying motorbikes."

"Oh, shut up!" She took another drag, deeper this time, and blew the smoke directly into George's face with a grin that might have matched his own, if she could see it. "Now, tell me more about Egypt. I've always wanted to go. What did you do? What did you  _see?_ "

George launched into his animated tales, gesturing wildly as he did. Soon, they were on to a second pipe and their third pot of chai tea, tears streaming down their faces as they exchanged stories about their favourite memories of mayhem - some from Hogwarts, and others all their own that were entirely new to the other. The music disguised most of their conversation, and their stuttering laughter did the rest - anyone overhearing them would probably think them drunk, if they managed to catch anything at all. Hermione was learning quite a lot about their process of inventing, and that George was the twin that was better at charm and transfiguration work, whilst Fred had always been a dab-hand at potion creation. In turn, she told him stories of her own - including setting Snape on fire in first year (which he'd all but hugged her over and offered her a free item of her choosing from the shop in thanks) and of accidentally turning herself into a cat with Polyjuice.

"Hey, that could be a great product!" He managed to choke out once his mirth subsided just enough for him to speak.

"Yes, well, you'd have to ask Madame Pomfrey how they reversed it, first of all. I was stuck that way for quite some time." She chuckled as she drained the last of her tea, her hangups over the situation long-gone. "Bugger, George, it's gone three o'clock!" Hermione sat up straighter, glancing at the ornate clock on the wall with wide eyes. "We've so much to do!"

"London isn't going anywhere, 'Mione!" He rolled his eyes, but did glance at the remaining embers of the shisha before taking the last few deep drags. "Though you did promise me music, and we shouldn't be too late getting back to Mum's. She's likely to throw a fit if I don't return you in one piece."

Finally leaving the smoky cafe and escaping into the bright afternoon of the city, they squinted and blinked against the harsh natural light before wandering from shop to shop, pointing out interesting items that caught their attention - including some questionable patchwork jackets, hats and trousers that George modelled admirably and insisted he wanted, which Hermione adamantly refused to pay for - until they came upon a music store that they could go into and finally complete their task.

"Okay, so here's the deal. I'll find one album for you, you find one for me, and then we'll swap. I have a CD player and an old record player at Grimmauld Place, so we can get either I suppose." Her eyes drifted over the rows of plastic cases, and cardboard folders that contained the vinyl disks, a finger drifting to her lips as she chewed on a nail thoughtfully. "There are some headphones and a player on the wall so you can get a taste for some tracks. Ready?"

"Ready, 'Mione. Let's go!" He grinned and then dove straight for the section entitled 'rock'. Hermione shook her head with a small sigh before moving away, instead moving to leaf through the stacks of vinyls - she already had something in mind that she had a feeling George might like -  _if,_ of course, she could find it.

Twenty minutes later they had their purchases, but George was adamant hers was to be wrapped before she could pay at the desk - which amused the cashier to no end, as did her ensuing tantrum as they left the shop.

"Secrets, 'Mione! You're not seeing it until we get back to Grimmauld! Now, come on. Let's go look for a present for Harry before the shops shut, shall we?" George held the bag from the record shop out of her reach, even though she'd paid for the blasted things in the first place.

"If I could use my wand, George, you'd be bat-bogeyed in such a way your nose would never feel the same again." Hermione hissed, trying to reach up to grasp the bag from his hands where he held it aloft.

"Ha! No chance. You're so titchy, it's like watching Pig get angry and flap about without anywhere to go." He dared to pat her on the head, fluffing her hair about her and making it frizz, which only served to incense her further

"Fine! See if I care about your bloody CD." Hermione stomped her foot in the most childish move she could possibly have made. "I'm going into that shop there; I saw a beautiful dragon statue that reminded me of a Norwegian Ridgeback with an egg. Stay here - I mean it. I'll be just a few minutes. You can handle that and not get into trouble for a whole five minutes whilst I go and buy it, can't you?"

"Wizard's honour." George promised, placing a hand over his heart, and Hermione trusted him by his word.

That was a mistake.

It turned out it would take considerably less than five minutes for George to get into plenty of trouble, because when Hermione came out of the shop precisely two minutes and thirty seconds later with her purchase for Harry, George had disappeared from his spot on the pavement where he had been standing, looking into the bag where the CD and record Hermione had bought were kept from her prying eyes.

" _Shit_." She swore in a very un-Hermione-like fashion, looking around her with a groan and a flare of panic as she searched the streets for the familiar shock of ginger hair.

Buggering, absolute  _shit._

 

* * *

**xxxXxxx**

* * *

 

"Oh… My…. God." Hermione breathed.

After a few well-placed, carefully hidden  _point me_  spells under the cover of dingy alleyways where there was not a Muggle to be seen, she had finally tracked down her errant wizard.

He was in a bar. That wasn't entirely surprising, really. Common sense dictated that George Weasley would manage to locate an establishment that served alcohol, and in London there were bars aplenty open at all hours of the day and night that served all manner of clientele.

What  _was_  surprising was the gaggle of drunk women in awfully short dresses wearing the most garish pink sashes she'd ever seen flocking around him. What was also surprising was that it was a male lap-dancing bar, and the gaggle of women seemed to be treating George as if he were the main attraction.  _Serves him right for dressing in leather_ , Hermione thought perversely as the poor man flushed red from his forehead to well below the collar of his t-shirt, face beetroot to match his hair, and as cheesy music started to play and the worn leather jacket he'd been wearing somehow made it onto the floor with a crumpling thud. If it had belonged to Sirius as she suspected it might have, then she sincerely doubted it was the first time it had been discarded in such a manner.

It was sort of fitting, really, that it was getting a good airing in such familiar circumstances.

"Er, ladies, you're all lovely, but I really think you've got the wrong bloke here!" He protested, but his words didn't seem to be heard over their giggles.

George caught her eye as she leaned against the bar, committing the scene to memory to share later with his brothers and Harry whom she had no doubt would rib him mercilessly for it, and relief flooded his face before he frantically started waving and gesturing for her to help him. The fear in his eyes over being felt up by pretty women would have been entirely too funny were it not for the fact he was so painfully embarrassed and confused. Hermione waved with a delicate waggle of her fingers, enjoying the fact that he had been abducted by a group of Muggle women a little too much.

One of the women wore a white dress,  _Bride To Be_ practically stamped across her breasts the sash was that tightly wrapped around her chest, and she was all but straddling George's lap; a feat made easier by her phenomenally high platform boots. Her ashy hair was tied high on her head in curling pigtails, making her look like a reject from the Spice Girls - in fact, a number of the girls were dressed precisely in that way. Hermione began to giggle from her side-lines at the bar as she realised just what was going on.

George - poor, poor George, had been accosted by a hen party.

Just as hands started to try and peel off his t-shirt, she made her way fully into the room, finally willing to put the wizard out of his apparently considerable misery. "Ladies! I do believe you have the wrong gentleman!" She winked at the bride, crossing her fingers that she wasn't coming across horribly. "Hermione, a pleasure." She greeted her with a friendly grin.

"Do we? He was waiting outside the bar like he was supposed to be!" One of the bridesmaid-sashed girls wailed, cuddling what did in fact appear to be a giant inflatable penis, and Hermione nodded solemnly at the drunken woman, patting her on the shoulder whilst she bit back her laughter. It wasn't even five o'clock and it appeared this lot were already three sheets to the wind. Hermione couldn't imagine, herself, any reason for getting so drunk and actually  _enjoying_  it, but she had to give it to these ladies: they seemed to be having quite the whale of a time.

"I know, I know. George here is very pretty. He's a rugby player too, so how could you resist? However, I'm probably going to have to take him back." She mouthed a quick apology to George, hoping that he saw it. The women began to crowd like gannets around them once more, their eyes wide and smiles far too bright.

"Rugby?"

"Ooooh!"

"I love a tough man."

"Show us your arms!"

"Show us your abs!" The bride grinned. "C'mon, George, is it? I'm Louise, it's my hen night! Let me have my last fling before I become my other half's 'ball and chain'!"

George looked questioningly at Hermione. "There's nothing for it." She sighed, hoping he would play along and turn on a little bit of the Weasley charm for long enough so that they could make the drunk women happy and get out of there sooner rather than later. "Well, it won't do your ego any harm. You've spent enough years on the pitch lugging balls around."

The penny dropped for him and his eyes filled with mischief as he realised what precisely it was that was going on. "Ladies, it's not sportsmanlike to brag." He said humbly, dipping his head down, but she could see him looking up at them rather innocently through his lashes. Innocent, Merlin's beard if George Weasley could ever be considered _innocent_.

"Oh, come on! I can feel the muscle from here." The bride, Louise, grinned wickedly, running a red-nailed hand up his arm. "Just a little peek? Teeny-tiny?" She measured out a tiny gap between her nails, and George, to his credit, did offer a flirtatious wink in the blonde's direction before teasing at the hem of his shirt. Hermione fought the desire to stick her fingers down her throat and gag. It was smoother than watching Ronald parade around with Lavender, to be certain, but there was something unsettling about watching a friend flirt shamelessly - even if he wasn't trying to fish for their tonsils with his tongue.

Hermione found other things to look at when the women were cheering, rolling her eyes at the utter nonsense. She did  _not_  need to see a strip-tease from George bloody Weasley, good Godric. She did sneak a glance though, and snorted when she saw his top was finally fully off - displaying well-chiselled muscle from his days as a Beater. The women were well and truly swooning, and she could see why. He was nothing like Ron, who was all lean muscle and sharper angles; he was solid and stocky, and had shoulders that really were like a rugby player's. Her little fib was actually one of good fortune, though she did find herself shuffling away from him just a little so she wasn't awkwardly hovering next to the half-naked man.

"A toast to the bride! Come on - for that  _gorgeous_ specimen, I think I'll get you two a round on me." Louise grinned at them both. A drink was shoved into her hand and she gladly took it, taking a swig from the concoction gladly after a toast to the party was offered, and she almost spat it out.

"It's certainly not Firewhisky, is it?" She gasped, eying the older Weasley brother with distaste as he shrugged.

"Nope, but down the hatch." George grinned, knocking his glass against hers as he spoke quietly, trying to find his t-shirt slyly. "How the fuck did I end up half naked in a strip club? What the hell goes on in Mu-... London?"

"I… I have no idea, honestly." Hermione was utterly bewildered. "This has got to be the most bizarre day in town I have ever had."

"Glad I could be of assistance." George smirked at her response, necking his drink in one long swallow when chants of 'down it, down it, down it!' began in earnest from the swarm of women around them. Before she knew it, she too was being man-handled by bridesmaids and forced to kneel at George's feet, a mass crowd forming around her.

"Photos! Come on, Herms, get in!" Louise crowed, and shoved what appeared to be a blow-up sex-doll into her arms.  _Oh, Merlin_. She was never, ever going to live this down.

"Got a new mate,  _Herms_?" George snickered as he eyed her, and she elbowed him solidly in the shin. "Oi, hands off the merchandise!" He grinned winningly for the flashing camera, throwing his arms around the bride in his shirtless state, even going so far as to lift her up in his arms. It was the most ridiculous thing she'd ever seen, so Hermione jumped up behind him and placed the inflatable man where his appendage was in rather a compromising position - resting right against George's mouth.

_Flash!_

The man was down before George knew what had happened. Only she and the photographer knew, who offered her a wink.

"We really should be going, ladies." George said sadly, putting his shirt and jacket back on. "Training in the morning, early start, and we've a train in half an hour."

"Who do you play for?" One of the bridesmaids asked - the dark-haired one who had been hugging the inflatable earlier. "We could come and see you sometime."

"Wimbourne Wasps. Small team, you've probably never heard of them." George lied easily, waving his hand as he slipped on his jacket.

"Shame." She said sadly. "Well, suppose we'd best let you go. Come on, I'll walk you out." She tottered on her skyscraper heels out into the cloakroom, George and Hermione following her with amused glances as she paused to get her balance on the doorframe. George offered to help her but she shook her head, batting his outstretched arm away.

"Oh, you're a lucky one." The bridesmaid said to Hermione. She and George choked at precisely the same moment, as they caught one another's eye and realised the implication of the woman's words.

"No. No way." Hermione shook her head emphatically, curls flinging about her head like whips.

"She's with my brother. That's just… no! Come on, 'Mione." George looked as horrified as she did, walking out of the door into the street.

"Well… whatever!" She really didn't look sold, her dark brows raising, but she shrugged. " Never mind. Here." The bridesmaid grinned and passed a couple of polaroid pictures into Hermione's hand. One was the group shot, which was rather nice despite the sodding inflatable doll, and the second was the one where Hermione had placed George in a rather compromising position. She grinned and pocketed them both quickly.

"He's got five siblings, he's never going to live this down." Hermione promised the bridesmaid. "Have fun!"

"You too… Oh, and tell your mate that he  _wishes_  he played for the Wasps. I can spot a Gryffindor anywhere. You're all full of shit."

She winked and then tottered back into the club, leaving Hermione gobsmacked in the cloakroom alone.

 

* * *

**xxxXxxx**

* * *

 

"Wait, so you're telling me that she was…"

"Yes, that's exactly what I'm telling you!" Hermione cried as George held open the back door to the Burrow.

Rather than taking the train, they'd found a quiet alley well away from any muggles and apparated straight back to the Burrow - both exhausted by the random turn of events their afternoon in London had taken. A Muggle-repelling charm to be sure had confirmed they wouldn't be disturbed, and within seconds they were back on familiar turf in Ottery St. Catchpole where Hermione revealed what the bridesmaid had said to her in her final moments before walking back into the strip-club.

"She said that I was a Gryffindor and full of shit? Those were her exact words?"

"Do you want the memory? I can retrieve it for you and offer it up in a pensieve!" Hermione jabbed him in the chest. "The Wimbourne Wasps? Honestly, you could have made anything up but you went with a Quidditch team?"

"S'not like Muggles would recognise… what's going on?" George stopped short and Hermione spun around to see all of the Weasley brood and Harry sat around the dining table with solemn faces, mugs of tea in hands and mid-way through what appeared to be a serious discussion, staring at them with wide eyes.

"Nice of you two to show up at last." Ron spat venomously. "Had a nice day out, have you, whilst we've been searching high and low for you?"

"We've not been gone that long! It's only six o'clock!" Hermione checked her watch with a frown. "What on earth is up with you, Ronald?" She scooted around the table to reach out for her boyfriend, but he batted her hand away. His eyes were narrowed in suspicion, and her stomach began to knot as she saw the familiar flare of his jealousy deep within them. "Ron, please don't do this."

"Don't do what? Worry about you? Wonder what you're doing?"

"We were at the shop, you know what we were doing!" Hermione rolled her eyes, refusing to let herself be baited by him and the entirely unnecessary bout of what appeared to be petty jealousy.

"We went to the shop, but you weren't there. So where were you, Hermione?" His voice began to rise.

"We went for lunch, and then into London to buy a  _thing_  for  _someone_." She tried to hint, her eyes darting to Harry with a nod of her head towards him, but apparently this was just too subtle for her boyfriend to understand.

"Really? You're telling me that  _George_ went into Muggle London with  _you_?" Ron snorted.

"What's wrong with that?" Hermione snapped, her hackles rising. "What is so wrong about me that makes me so unpleasant to be around? Do tell me, because I'd love to know!"

"That! Being such a stuck-up cow!"

"Oh, I'm sorry! Just because you're incapable of functioning in Muggle London doesn't mean everyone in the Wizarding world is."

"That'd require him functioning in the Wizarding world first, wouldn't it?" Ron spat, and Hermione saw red, her hand flying toward the wand in her pocket.

His mother's hissed intake of breath was nothing compared to George's growl, which made her pause. "Ron, stop before you end up with a wand between your eyebrows, and it won't only be mine." Her voice was low. "You can be an arse to me, but you have  _no right_  to be a git to your brother!"

"Oh, so you're defending him now?" Ron turned on his brother, his face becoming puce with anger. "Well, whilst  _you_ , big brother, were off …. gallivanting with  _my_  girlfriend, this letter came for her. Tell her she might want to read it, because it's quite important!"

He slammed a pale parchment letter down on the table, a bright wax seal stamped clearly in the centre for all to see, and stormed out, the chair banging against the wall as he kicked it back. Hermione winced as she heard the thud of feet on the stairs and the distant slam of a door before she sunk down into a chair. She put her head in her hands, dragging her fingertips down her face with a low groan. George slunk into the chair next to her, eying his family balefully.

"What, no scathing remarks from the rest of you? We had a really great day today, thanks for asking. Made some top-notch batches of products, I rode the Tube, bought a present, got accosted by a load of mad women, accidently ran into a witch and outed ourselves whilst we were all pretending to be Muggles. I talked about Freddie, and I laughed a lot. I'm not going to apologise for it."

"You shouldn't. Ron's a git, sorry Mum." Bill said. "Just leave a note, next time. We could have done with knowing where you were. Obviously, our Hermione's a smart girl, but…"

Her fingers brushed the parchment as she opened it, her mouth becoming dry and her stomach rolling with a whole new wave of nausea entirely unrelated to Ronald's completely irrational outburst.

 

 

_Dear Miss Hermione Granger,_   
  


_You have been summoned to present evidence at the hearing of:_

_Mr Draco Malfoy_

_Mrs Narcissa Malfoy_   
  


_You are to report to the Ministry of Magic at 9am tomorrow morning, the 3rd of June 1998, and you will be taken to the appropriate courtroom for the necessary trial._

_Please note that there may be some waiting involved between sessions. You are welcome to bring reading material of your choice, though this will not be permitted in the courtroom itself._

_You do not need to respond to this owl to confirm your attendance. Should any questions arise, please do not hesitate to address an owl with your concerns to the Department of Magical Law Enforcement._

_  
Sincerely,_

_The office of K. Shacklebolt_

_Minister of Magic_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hope you all enjoyed. Let me know what you thought, and have a great week!


	6. On The Stand

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> -gingerly crawls out of hole-
> 
>  
> 
> Erm… hi?
> 
> This has been written for a little while but I’ve not managed to get it to a beta… or post it… or do much of anything, to be honest. I’M SORRY! Let me explain.
> 
> Life in the outside world has had to take the driver’s seat for a little while and I can only apologise. New school, OFSTED (Think Umbridge with a clipboard, only… it was a surprise! It is genuine hell on earth for teachers. The pressure is phenomenal.) and just general life-shaped things getting thrown at me. My poor brain has really struggled to keep up. If anyone’s heard of dyspraxia before, or has it… you will know my struggle! If you haven’t… It’s sometimes called clumsy child syndrome, but there’s a lot more to it that affects organisation, memory, speech and language skills, and all sorts. Basically it means there’s only so much my brain can handle at once before it short-circuits and goes into meltdown. Safe to say it happened, and I actually forgot words, how to write, all sorts. I also had a car crash which was delightful.
> 
> Alongside this, I wrote my entry for the Sing Me a Rare competition over on the Fairest of the Rare group on Facebook. My piece was runner up in two categories, and winner in two others! It’s a James/Sirius one-shot and is on my profile - go take a look. It was completely out of my comfort zone and I’m really proud of it.
> 
> In the interim, this fic was nominated for a 2017 Marauder Medal in the Honorary Marauder category. Whilst we didn’t win, it means more than anything that this story was nominated at all and that people voted for it. Thank you for sticking with me. You guys really, truly are the best.
> 
> Any serious errors, please let me know. I hope to have it beta’d and will repost soon-ish, but I’ve proofread a number of times and can’t see any glaring bugs.
> 
> Without further ado, here is chapter six… and Malfoy!
> 
>  
> 
> Love, always,
> 
> MM-x

 

 

 

“Ron?”

 

Hermione tapped tentatively on the door to his bedroom. Once again, it seemed she was having to apologise - for what, she wasn’t entirely sure except for the fact that he was clearly jealous about _something_ \- to the boy she had cared about so very deeply for a long time.

“What do you want?” She heard the muffled reply and sighed, pressing her forehead into the solid wood of the door.

“To talk, obviously. Clearly, something needs to be said after that little display, and I’d prefer it not to be in public.” 

Silence rang out clear for a moment, before the thud of footsteps echoed and the door clicked open just enough for her to slide inside the bedroom she’d so often sat in - conspiring, plotting, laughing. Enjoying midnight feasts that they’d snuck up from the kitchen under the cover of Harry’s invisibility cloak, throwing food at each other to catch in their mouths and ending up with more of it _on_ them than _in_ them. Freezing and hushing one another when creaks on the stairs could be heard, snorting with suppressed laughter when the danger of being caught awake far too late had passed. _A lot of good, wonderful things had happened in this bedroom_ , Hermione remembered wistfully.

 

They weren’t doing any of those things now.

 

Ron’s eyes narrowed at her as she closed the door quietly, and leaned against it with a gentle thud. “What’s going on, Ron?” Hermione asked plainly, running a hand through her hair as she watched him in return - his lean form towering over her, all long arms and legs for days. The build that had, eventually, made him such a good Keeper when playing Quidditch.

“You know, you going over to help at the shop was sort of cool. Seeing you let go a bit after… y’know,” his eyes remained fixed on the floor as he spoke, “Was, _is_ , good. But then you disappear for a whole bloody afternoon with my _brother_. What am I supposed to think?”

“That he’s your _brother,_ Ron!” Hermione moaned, closing her eyes and whacking her head repeatedly against the door in exasperation. “I don’t know what you are imagining happened, but it didn’t. I’m putting my foot down on this right now because, and I’m being serious here, _nothing is going on between me and George_.”

Ron grimaced, “Really? You both looked awfully cosy.” 

“Oh, sod off. I’ve known him as long as I’ve known you, you daft arse! Of course I’m comfortable with him. That doesn’t mean that I want to rip off the clothes of every bloke I happen to have a passing acquaintance with and… and _ravish_ them on the spot, for goodness sake! You know full well it’s perfectly possible for men and women to be friends without wanting to snog each other senseless. I can’t believe I’m having to defend myself against this nonsense. Don’t you _trust me_?”  

The hurt clearly must have shone through on her face and in her words, because Ron’s eyes finally snapped upwards from where they were burning a hole into the floorboards. “Merlin, Hermione, ‘course I trust you! How can you say that?”  

“Then the petty jealousy needs to stop, because I won’t stand for it.” She snapped. “Do I think he could be a good mate? Yes. Absolutely. And I think it’s good for him, because he sees me as a project with the whole ‘corrupting me’ thing. Though where he gets that notion…”

“Yeah, not like you need any help.” Ron snorted, and Hermione pushed herself off the door to close the distance between them, standing on her toes to grasp his face gently in her hands, turning his pale blue gaze to hers. “I don’t like it, Hermione. I don’t want him to hurt you when he’s a bloody mess. I mean, you didn’t really know him before… Fred. Yeah, at school and everything they were pains in the arse, and daft, and tested some of their products on Firsties. But they balanced each other out and _usually_ stopped each other crossing the really dangerous lines, y’know?” Ron’s arms snaked around her waist. “Apart from Umbridge.”

They shared a dark chuckle, and some of the tension dissipated from the room - though an air definitely still lingered.

“Then I’ll do what I do best, won’t I? Be a stick in the mud. But really - he wasn’t that bad. He _laughed_ , and he talked about Fred with a smile, and had good memories that he could talk about with a grin. And he.. He listened to me about the drinking. At least a little bit. I doubt it will last but…”

“We’ll see.” She could feel Ron’s shrug. “Just don’t get your hopes up. It’ll be like SPEW all over again.”

“S.P.E.W, Ronald.” Hermione scolded, correcting him. “Like I said, it’ll be back and forth. George had a good day today, and maybe he’ll have a bad one tomorrow. That doesn’t mean there won’t be more good ones to come.”

Ron gazed in disbelief at her, as if she’d grown three heads. “I don’t get it. You’re nothing alike. Why do you even want to be friends with him?”

Hermione frowned at that. She wasn’t much alike _any_ of her friends, but they still got along famously for the most part; that wasn’t the only thing that made a foundation for a friendship. “I… Your brother is actually quite smart you know.” She chuckled at his disbelieving face. “You don’t think their products appear out of thin air, do you? They created whole new spells. That takes some real magical skill - usually a Mastery. There’s more to being clever than just books.”  

Ron gaped openly at that. “Blimey, Hermione, do you hear yourself? Are you okay?” He gave her a shake at that, and then raised a hand to her forehead. “You feeling ill or something? Do I need to floo St. Mungo’s?”

“Oh, ha-bloody-ha.” She swatted him away with a purse of her lips. “You think you’re so funny.” Ron offered a quirk of his lips that suggested ‘ _who, me?_ ’, which she rolled her eyes at before pressing a gentle kiss to his mouth, savoring the moment now that their fight seemed to be over - at least for the moment. “Now, do you want to tell me what your foul mood is actually about? Because I don’t believe for one second you’re actually jealous of your older brother.”

Ron remained silent for a while, and Hermione sighed. She extracted herself from his arms and sat herself on the end of his bed, folding her legs beneath her and propping her chin in her hands. “Contrary to popular belief, I am not, in fact, a Legillimens. I cannot read your mind. Talk to me, Ron.” She pleaded. He might have grown and matured in some ways, but when it came to his feelings it was apparent that he still suffered with Emotional Range of a Teaspoon Syndrome, as she privately - and regularly - dubbed his stunted responses.

Finally, he dropped to sit next to her, taking her hand and toying with her fingers. “It’s this trial. I got a letter to stand but I just… I can’t do it. Makes me feel sick just thinking about it. The Weasleys and the Malfoys have been at odds for so long, no-one would believe me if I testified for them anyway.” He admitted. “I know they helped us, in their way. I get that, I really do. It’s really good that Harry is going to stand up and say his bit for them but…”

Ron held her gaze for a long moment, and then meaningfully looked towards the arm that held the scar which would never fade, never be covered or hidden. Oh. _Oh._

“You don’t think I should do it either.” Hermione said flatly, feeling her stomach sink.

“I don’t see how you could, really. Not considering what happened in that house, and all the shit Malfoy called you over the years.”

“But if it wasn’t for Narcissa, Harry wouldn’t have come back to us at the battle. And Malfoy...” She paused, chewing her lip. “He…. he refused to torture me, you know. Bellatrix tried to make him, and he refused to. Didn’t call for Voldemort either, and even tried to stop his father from doing it too. He did a lot wrong, Ron. But that night at Malfoy Manor I realised something. I think Malfoy was just a stupid, spoiled kid born on the wrong side of the war, who wanted to impress his father and got in far too deeply. Then he only wanted to survive, just like we did. You should have seen his face when Bellatrix - when she...” Hermione trailed off, closing her eyes. Remembering Malfoy’s pale, sickly expression and the way he’d backed away, refusing to participate in her torture was one of the defining reasons she was going to at least testify what she’d seen from her perspective.

He was a spoiled, stupid boy, who had done some awful things, but most had been under extreme duress. He needed to be punished for those things, but when she compared him to the other Death Eaters, even to Crabbe or Goyle, or Merlin wept, his father… no. She wasn’t really sure he deserved the same fate as some of the others.

“I’d rather not think about that, thanks.” Ron spat grimly.

“Good for you. I can’t ever forget.” Hermione whispered, angry tears threatening to spill. “It’s not like I see their faces every other bloody night or anything.”

“See - _see!_ ” Ron snapped the fingers of his free hand, the other clutching hers more tightly for emphasis. “That’s why you shouldn’t be doing this. It’s just going to drag it all back up again and make you feel worse. Why put yourself through that?”

 

Why indeed?

 

Hermione drew her thumb to her lip, chewing on the ravaged skin there where she had taken to nibbling whenever she was tense. “Because, at the end of the day, I think I would feel even worse if I didn’t go and say my piece. Justice cannot be truly done unless a full picture is made, and I feel a responsibility to that justice considering how much we gave - how much we sacrificed -  in order to make sure that we made this world a better place. Don’t you?”

“When it comes to the Malfoys? Not really, no. Not considering some of the things they’ve done to our family.” Ron shook his head vehemently. “Not after what happened to you. It’s just too much to ask.”

Hermione’s stomach churned again as she appraised the man before her, pale and stony-faced in his surety. Despite how closely they were pressed as they sat together on the bed, a yawning chasm stretched between them that she had no idea how to breach. No clue how to even begin to traverse despite all the pretty words and excuses she could possibly try to muster about justice, right and wrong, and the greater good. She was stubborn, there was no doubt about that, and she would certainly try to get him to see some sort of reason.

“But couldn’t the same have been said, well, about _Sirius_? He was imprisoned without a fair trial and he spent twelve years in Azkaban under false pretenses because of the history of the Black name and a bit of vaguely circumstantial evidence.” Hermione pointed out with a gentle nudge of her shoulder.

“That’s… well that’s… that’s not even remotely the same thing. Not at all alike!” Ron spluttered, his face and neck reddening.

“It’s not a perfect analogy I grant you, but it’s not entirely wrong either. Kingsley wants to make sure that awful miscarriage of justice never happens again, and so everyone who has any sort of evidence gives it. With Harry and I giving our own testimony, if you didn’t want to you wouldn’t _have_ to but… another perspective wouldn’t hurt, Ron. Even if you didn’t feel like you could speak out in their favour. It wouldn’t make any difference to us because we wouldn’t get to hear what you said. It would be your choice.” Hermione was aware that her voice was taking on _that_ tone - that nagging tone that she sometimes got, the wheedling one when she was trying to get someone to do something through emotional means rather than her usual blunt measures.

“Don’t - don’t do that, Hermione. You’re doing that thing - that manipulative thing. I don’t like it, and it isn’t fair. I’ve already said I can’t and I’ll think about it again, but I don’t think I’ll be changing my mind.” His face was set, his jaw fixed so stubbornly and his eyes so closed that she was now not only close to tears but shedding them properly now.

“I understand, Ron. I do, I really do. I’ll just.. I’ll just go, shall I? This isn’t going to go anywhere right now when we’re both so wound up by this.” She brushed the offending salt-water from her face and pushed herself upward so that she stood above him, pressing a gentle palm to his face with a lopsided smile that was more of a grimace. Her heart twisted painfully in her chest as he made no response except for a wrinkling of his nose and she withdrew her hand sharply as if bitten. A fresh round of tears began in earnest and she made to walk away from the room before a new row began, but Ron clearly misinterpreted the reason for her distress as his whole expression transformed into one of blazing anger.

“For Merlin’s sake ‘Mione, don’t _do_ this! Can’t you see what it’s doing to you? You’re a wreck already!” Ron pleaded, grabbing her wrist as she stood from the bed, jerking her backward so firmly that she stumbled as she was walking to the door. His fingers were almost bruisingly tight as they grasped her and she closed her eyes briefly as a slow, hissed intake of breath whistled between her teeth.

“Let me go, please.” Hermione spoke flatly, staring at the spot where their skin joined as if it wasn’t quite her wrist and his hand that was holding it, rooting her to the spot. Her gaze slowly drifted up his freckled arm to his shoulders, broadened from their once-gangly teenage frame by Quidditch, and then over his slack face to his eyes which were wide; as if they’d taken the same journey as her own.

An eternity seemed to stretch between them, their eyes locked, before his fingers sprang open and Ron was on his knees before her before she could blink, his head pressed into her stomach. It took her brain far too long to realise that his shoulders were shuddering and his hands were clutching at her.

Crying. He was crying, on his knees, face buried in the soft, long-sleeved t-shirt she had worn out that day. Hermione’s heart cracked in two at the broken man before her; just as broken as her, in his own way, and her hands began to stroke through the coarse strands of hair in soothing motions as quiet, soothing noises escaped her lips. Slowly, after minutes - it could have been hours with the stab of agony each silent sob brought to her chest, like a bullet - his broken tears subsided and his grasping fingers turned to gentle brushes along her waist and hips that echoed the movements of her fingers through his hair.

His face turned upwards to gaze pleadingly at her and his seafoam eyes were ringed with red, lips swollen as if they’d been recently kissed. “If I asked you not to go to the trial; if I asked you to stay, would you do it?”

“Please don’t.” Hermione murmured, her throat tight. “Please don’t ask me that.”

Ron nodded, and sniffed, face no longer wet but still suffering for the effects of his broken weeping. “That’s that then.” He croaked, and with all the gentleness he had not shown earlier, he pushed her backwards towards the door. “Go, ‘Mione. Just… just go.”

He didn’t look her in the eye as she staggered backwards towards the door. He seemed to collapse in on himself, resting on his heels, his chin falling to rest on his chest as his hands collapsed to his knees. He seemed to be seeking some desperate grounding that she hadn’t been able to give him, and she took a step forward as she reached out to him with a single, trembling hand.

 

It was too little, too late - and she knew it.

 

“Don’t. Go save your Death Eater. Go!” His voice raised, hoarse and angry now, and her hands collided with the door handle as she scrambled for purchase, vision blurred and warped by the sight of the broken man in front of her.

After fleeing down the stairs, Hermione found a very quiet Burrow greeting her. The visitors were all long gone, and instead Molly was bustling around the kitchen.

“Oh, my dear.” She spotted Hermione as the girl let out a tell-tale sob and dragged her into a motherly hug, pressing her tightly into her and sweeping a hand over her wayward curls. “I know my Ron is a bit… headstrong, and so are you. It’s always going to be fiery between you. But here’s a secret - all the best relationships are.” Molly gave her a squeeze and then let her take a step back, raking her gaze over her. “Now, why don’t  we have a cup of tea, hmm?”

“I’d like that Mrs… Molly.” She corrected hastily, and the woman smiled brightly, earning a pat on the cheek. “Where are Harry and Ginny?”

“Oh, they’ve disappeared off to see little Teddy. He’s so fond of Harry - I do wish they’d bring him over here sometime so I could have a cuddle of my own!” She grumbled good naturedly, with a slight twinkle in her eye, and Hermione wondered if Mrs. Weasley was wondering when the two would give her grandchildren of her own to spoil rotten. She hated to break it to the woman, but she doubted it would be any time soon, and she also doubted that they’d gone to see Andromeda and Teddy at all - more than likely, they were snogging on the settee at Grimmauld. “Now, take a seat. Why don’t you tell me all about it whilst I put the kettle on?”

Grateful for a willing ear and the distraction from the disturbing thought of finding Harry in a compromising position with Ginny, Hermione slumped into the waiting chair. “Oh, it’s just this trial, and the leftovers from the war, Hogwarts and… and everything getting on top of us, really.” Hermione shrugged, running a hand through her hair with a deep sigh.

“The trial will be a sore spot for all of us in this household, Hermione.” Molly’s voice became strained as she placed a mug in front of her. “The Malfoys and the Weasleys have had feuds going back generations, and Lucius Malfoy has had it out for us too. I’m afraid you won’t find much support in these walls for him or his ilk.”

“I appreciate that. I’m just interested in fairness, and I’m not saying Draco Malfoy is a misunderstood angel in disguise - he’s been a horrible bully. He’s just not quite as bloody evil as his father, or the other Death Eaters. He was a child, like we were, you know?”

Molly looked pensive, and pursed her lips as she pressed a mug onto the table before hermione and took a seat across from her. “Perhaps. Only he can know for sure, mind, what was going on in his head.”

“And that’s what these trials are for. I… Mrs. Weasley, you’re _brilliant!_ Why didn’t I think of that?” Hermione exclaimed, snapping her fingers once before, quite literally, smacking herself on the forehead. It was the perfect solution - a way for her to be able to make peace with her actions one way or the other.

“Well - thank you - but… think of _what_ , dear?” She asked, flustered and baffled, as Hermione stood, dashing up the stairs to the room she shared with Ginny to pen a letter that was probably half mad, and half utterly brilliant as she’d said.

 

 

* * *

**xxxXxxx**

* * *

 

 

 

On reflection, perhaps _brilliant_ had been a little strong. However, it really was a way for her to reconcile her need to have the fair trials that were so poorly handled in times gone by with her desire to keep peace with those that she loved, and with her own knife-edge sanity.

 Hermione read the letter over three times before she finally decided she was willing to send it - that she was either brave enough… or _mad_ enough. No, _brilliant_ really wasn’t an accurate adjective at all for her latest harebrained scheme. The very thought of what she was about to suggest was perhaps simply insane.

But here she was, letter in hand, about to do it anyway.

 

_Dear Minister Shacklebolt,_

_I request urgent permission to speak to Draco Malfoy this evening, prior to his trial. I understand he is being kept at the Ministry of Magic rather than at Azkaban Prison pending his trial tomorrow morning._

_I appreciate the late hour of this missive, and if it is too late for me to do so I understand. However, it would help me to make a decision on my testimony. I appreciate that might sound rather strange._

_I await your owl,_

_Hermione Granger_

 

She sent Pig off in all his blessed, hyperactive glory before she lost her nerve entirely, and then sat in Ginny’s bedroom in the silence as the breeze blew in through the still open window. Once the frantic race of her heart and sweating palms had settled, she stole back down the stairs and then for good measure had  a small glass of wine from Molly’s cabinet, plonking back down at the dining table with a nervous smile at the witch.

“Do you care to tell me why I was quite so brilliant now?” Molly frowned as she saw the wineglass Hermione was holding uneasily.

“Well… it was what you said about getting into Malfoy’s head. I obviously can’t do that, can I? But… I can _ask_ him.”

Molly paused, resting her hands on the back of a chair. “That wasn’t precisely what I meant, Hermione dear.”

“Oh, I know.” Hermione waved a hand tiredly before taking a sip of wine. “I know you don’t want to get into it. I barely want to myself, but I need some answers. I’ve sent an owl to Kingsley on the off-chance he might let me in to see Malfoy - junior.” She clarified at Molly’s frown. “I can make a better decision… or one that feels right, anyway, if I’ve spoken to him face to face, I hope.”

“If you think so.” Her tone was uncertain and face disbelieving.

“I’m not entirely sure either, but if it means that Ron might at least accept I’ve come to a decision fairly then…” Hermione shrugged, rubbing at her wrist absently, and the other witch’s face cleared in an instant. She nodded in understanding and shuffled around the table to give the younger woman a one-armed hug.  

“I see. Well, I’ll leave you to your thoughts, shall I? I’ll be in the sitting room with Arthur if you need anything. I’ll be having an early night in case my George is up early again tomorrow, you know.” Molly’s fond expression lit up her face as she bustled out of the room and Hermione watched her go with a gentle smile - it was only just gone seven. Chuckling she shook her head before turning back to stare at her glass pensively once more, her thoughts quickly turning back to the task at hand and what she could possibly say to - or ask - Malfoy now that her request had been sent.  

Just as she was running her finger around the rim, making the glass sing, the whoosh of the Floo from the living room made her jump out of her skin, followed by the soft exclamations of Molly and Arthur at the sudden intrusion.

“I’m sorry for the imposition at such a late hour. Is Hermione here still?” Kingsley’s rich timbre could be heard through the open door, and Hermione stood so quickly the chair clattered behind her.

“I’m in the kitchen!” She called, settling her sudden nerves at his unexpected, and personal, response to her missive.

“Ah, there you are. I just got your owl. Hermione...  are you sure?” He eyed her glass of wine and the bottle on the table, and she offered him a glass which he gladly took. “I will, of course, permit an audience for one such as yourself, but it does seem out of the blue - so to speak.”

“I know - but there are answers I need from him. We had such a difficult co-existence to say the very least, and during the final months of the war things seemed to somehow… change. Not dramatically, and certainly not in a way that I would deem a particular change of heart, but I need to understand at least some of his motivations before I can, in good faith, say my piece on the witness stand. It’s all very complicated; I’m aware I’m making a hash of this explanation.” Hermione groaned, running a hand over her face.

Kingsley chuckled. “No, I understand. The number of times we heard similar stories in the Law Enforcement office from witnesses would surprise you. Draco Malfoy has been, for the most part, cooperative with our Aurors and so I don’t see a problem with letting you through to speak to him for a little while - but it certainly won’t be for long considering the hour. I’ll have to take you in myself.”

“An escort with the Minister himself; how thrilling.” Hermione snorted. “My mad day just gets better and better.”

Kingsley’s dark brows rose beneath the purple hat he wore. “You can tell me about this mad day of yours whilst I _escort_ you, then, Miss Granger. Consider it payment.”

 

 

* * *

**xxxXxxx**

* * *

 

 

 

The grey breezeblock walls and dim lighting of the hallways to the holding cells on the level below the courtrooms were a world away from the clean lines and slick marble Hermione had usually come to expect of the Ministry of Magic. A whistling draft somehow whipped down the corridor in the eerie silence - charmed, she was sure. The doors to each cell were windowless, identifiable only by a small rune in one corner which Hermione assumed linked to an individual; or perhaps even some sort of warding she’d not heard of before in her Ancient Runes class.

She filed it away in the back of her mind to research as she pulled her robes a little tighter about her.

Kingsley pulled them to a stop outside of one door and traced his wand in a complex configuration, and a window melted into view before her eyes. “Draco Malfoy, are you fit to receive company?”

There was a mumbling, a muttered curse, and then the scrape of a chair before she heard a raspy voice reply, “Yes, I am.”

The door was opened and Kingsley stood back. Hermione’s mouth dried and words stuck in her throat as she saw a shadow of her former nemesis sat at a small table in one corner of the room, hands cuffed together but folded before him, back bolt-upright and chin held high. Yet despite the posturing, he was gaunt with deep shadows below his eyes, skin sallow, a light beard forming along his jaw, and pale hair dishevelled and at an awkward length that only enhanced the angles of his face in an unflattering way.

And then his eyes met hers, before his head tipped backward to meet the sky as if in prayer.

“Come to have a gloat have you, Granger? Come to take a good, long look at how far I’ve fallen?”

“Hardly.” She said primly, and looked at Kingsley. “May I?” She gestured to the chair opposite Malfoy.

“I’m in no position to stop you, am I?” Her young counterpart responded though he wasn’t the one being spoken to, eyes still firmly locked on the ceiling even as Kingsley nodded for her to take a seat.

_Ah, that arrogance - apparently not dulled by a cell_. “Quite right.” Hermione snorted rather delicately, and slipped into the chair opposite her once-nemesis. “I shan’t ask any stupid questions, Malfoy. Neither you nor I are in the business. I do remember that much from school.”

_That_ seemed to catch his attention, and his chin dipped forward. His hair, lank from weeks of poor care she presumed, fell into the cold grey eyes she’d come to know so well, and he studied her with what amounted to, she supposed,  intrigue. “An interesting opening gambit, Granger, I grant you that. What do you want?”

“Let me answer a question with a question; poor debating form, I know. How frank can I be with you here, Malfoy?”

The blonde raised his shackled hands to gesture to the cell with a roll of his eyes and a wrinkle of his nose. “Go to town, Granger. If your imperial escort here leaves you in here with me alone then my, ahem, _adornments_ will hold me in place until he returns for you. The worst I can do is call you the usual.”

She didn’t miss the barely perceptible flickering of his eyes down to her arm, or the ever so slight tightening of his fists. _Okay, then,_ she thought, _we’ll leave that for a bit, shall we?_

“Minister, if you wouldn’t mind?” Hermione turned towards Kingsley with a small smile in reassurance. His expression didn’t change but for a firm nod.

“Of course, Hermione. Remember, we’re on the clock.”

“This won’t take long, I promise.” She assured him, and once the door clicked in place behind him she leaned back in her chair with a slight slump. Malfoy maintained his ram-rod poise in his hideously uncomfortable prison chair.

The two stared each other out for a long while, as if waiting for the other to crack. Finally, Hermione relented as she found the words she was looking for. “I’ve been asked to testify tomorrow for your mother.” She stated. “I am of course going to do so.”

Malfoy looked like he’d been smacked around the face with a cricket bat, and it took him several long moments to collect his thoughts before he stuttered a response. “That’s… that’s awfully good of you, Granger. Considering…” He began, his eyes flicking to her arm again.

“I’ve been asked to testify for you too.” She added in a rush, and a deathly quiet fell - so silent that both of their breaths created an echo and her blood rushed in her ears.

“Well, I will admit… that is a curved-quaffle.” Malfoy drawled. “And an unnecessary use of your valuable breath, I’m certain. Why you would waste your precious energy on...”

“A bully. A vile arse born with a silver spoon so far in his mouth he was practically excreting it.” Hermione recited clinically. “And as I understand it, you’re on trial for being a Death Eater, attempted murder, grievous bodily harm using a cursed item, and allowing Death Eaters into Hogwarts.”

“You don’t need to repeat my charges to me Granger, I see them in my fucking sleep every night.” His eyes narrowed and his shoulders hunched just a little, hands forming into fists.

“Good, you should. But because I desperately need to know it… why? Even if I don’t like the answer… _why_?” Hermione’s voice became a little desperate.

Malfoy sneered. “There isn’t a pity tale here, Granger. All that tripe I said to you at school was because I believed it all my life to be the truth. It was only when _he_ returned that… he was in my _house_ . You don’t understand how mad he was. What he wanted us to _do_ ? What he did to us - what he did to my family. It was survival, and I would have done anything to make sure that they lived. You hardly mattered any more to me than the next mu… Muggleborn. No-one deserved what he did.”  His eyes darted _again,_ this time far more obviously, to the word on her arm, and he looked distinctly sick.

“Oh, for heaven’s sake!” She hissed and shoved her jumper sleeve up to show the word they both knew was there, holding it before him so that he could read the red lettering that stood bold and proud against her skin. “Shall we deal with the hippogriff in the room? I have my mark, you have yours. Both clearly stamp our ‘places’ in the world.” She gestured the quotes for effect. “You’re not the only one who has nightmares.”

“The difference is, Granger, only one of those marks is the _truth_ , isn’t it? And - newsflash - it isn’t yours.” He spat, his eyes suddenly wide and wild. The calm exterior he’d had, the oddly easygoing manner gone in an instant. “Don’t bother standing for me at my trial. I don’t deserve it any more than my Gods-forsaken father does. Take every bit of good will you have to save my mother from whatever awful fate they might have in store for her because - and here’s the catch - _I don’t want your charity._ I am not worth your time or your energy, and you would do better to forget that I ever existed. The rest of the world certainly will once I’m safely tucked up in Azkaban.” Malfoy’s voice was bitter as his eyes closed in defeat, the fight draining out of him. “Just… save it all for my mother.”

Hermione stared at him, trying her very hardest not to let her shock show on her face. Gone was the poised, haughty boy who she had known so well - even if rumpled and poorly cared for in his Ministry cell. In his shadow was the shell of a man who had seen too much of war, just as she had. Wounded and battered, physically and psychologically; growing up in an environment that taught him that _mudbloods_ were bad and _purebloods_ were good. That Dumbledore was a mad old man and Voldemort was the one true saviour of the Wizarding world. It was sort of sad, really; to be so lost in all of that doctrine and to have it completely wreck you so thoroughly…

But of course she would think that, wouldn’t she? She was on the winning side in all of this,  in a place of privilege. Would he have been so generous had the tables been turned?

“Everyone deserves a fair trial, Malfoy.” Hermione said quietly at last, and pushed her chair back from the table decisively. “I’m done here, Minister!” She called loudly enough through the door to be heard, and allowed herself to be swept from the oppressive silence of the holding cells into the echoing antechamber of the Ministry of Magic - her mind a flurry of activity.

 

Two things had been made very clear to her in that short conversation - painfully clear, even.

 

The first was that Draco Malfoy thought that he was beyond redemption. The second was that she was going to do her damnedest to help him find it anyway.

 

 

* * *

**xxxXxxx**

* * *

 

 

**_Malfoy Heir and Mother Evade Imprisonment:_ **

**_Muggleborn Heroine Speaks Out!_ **

 

_In today’s Wizengamot Court proceedings both Narcissa Malfoy and Draco Malfoy were released, pending probationary conditions._

_Whilst it  was ultimately considered that Narcissa Malfoy’s role in ensuring Harry Potter was able to defeat the Dark Lord known as Voldemort was a tipping point that helped him to win the war; the greatest shock of the day came from the release of Draco Malfoy following on from an impassioned testimony from one Hermione Jean Granger (Order of Merlin, 1st Class)._

_Miss Granger is known as an instrumental member of the ‘Golden Trio’ of Hogwarts - the other members of course including Harry Potter and their closest friend, Ronald Weasley. Oft dubbed one of the shining intellects amongst her peer group, this young muggleborn witch faced some of the vilest persecution for her blood ancestry during her time at Hogwarts and indeed, the Second Wizarding War._

_Approaching the stand in the second half of the trial following testimonies for the prosecution, Miss Granger appeared stoic and unflustered under oath in robes of sapphire blue and a stack of notes - which were regularly addressed and referred to throughout her speech and subsequent cross-examination._

_“[Draco] Malfoy and I were, to say the least, childhood rivals. We competed in school and fought for top marks. He called me names and spread rumours; I threw slaps and names back to give him more than enough run for his money. None of this is new, but it does provide context. We were not friends.” Stated Granger, 18, in her opening testimony._

_Miss Granger went on to outline that she had visited the young man in detainment and she expressed that they had taken some time to discuss why he had acted in the way that he had. Having been rudely interrupted by the members of the Wizengamot and the public gallery, Granger quickly silenced the room with a commanding presence unusual in one of such a young age before returning to her evidence._

_“Last night, I spoke to the defendant. I do not know how many of you truly know me, but I am considered to be blessed with somewhat of an eidetic memory. Mr. Malfoy said to me that I should not bother to stand for him at his trial, and instead ensure that his mother receive as much support as possible in order to secure her freedom and safety. ”_

_Granger went on to describe an event in Malfoy Manor in which she was tortured by the late Bellatrix Lestrange, sister to Narcissa Malfoy and aunt to the defendant. In her own words he looked “pale, shaken, and refused to participate despite threats from the woman that he should do so. He noted in our conversation that my scar from the incident, the word ‘mudblood’, was not the truth - and I believe his sincerity in this comment.”_

_When questioned by the prosecutor, Miss Granger stated a number of Wizarding Laws and Statutes regarding the trial - not limited to the irrefutable fact that, whilst branded a Death Eater, it had been completed under duress, under the age of majority, and that he had not killed any individual throughout the course of the Second Wizarding War. “In fact, as we will later hear, steps were taken to ensure that he was never scarred by that particular feat - not something even those of us who fought for the Order of the Phoenix can share.”_

_Draco Malfoy was also supported by Harry Potter, who cited the memories of Severus Snape who has been exonerated of all crimes of all Death Eater involvement after it was revealed he was working as a spy for the Order of the Phoenix. Additionally, he listed his own experiences with the defendant including an incident in their sixth year at Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry in which he found the aforementioned “struggling under the weight of responsibility he didn’t want, in order to save his family.” It was also declared, as per Miss Granger’s earlier statement, that Draco Malfoy was protected by Albus Dumbledore and in fact had asked Severus Snape to ensure that he was killed by the spy’s hand. (For more details on the hidden life and history of Severus Snape, spanning the two Wizarding Wars, see page 8)._

_The news comes as a dramatic contrast to the life term served upon Lucius Malfoy in the previous case only two hours before, with only three individuals voting for lighter punishment in his case. One wonders if Mr. Malfoy Jr. will join those of his peers at Hogwarts - and if so, what the reception will be?_

_Further details of the court case and reception of the news can be found on pages 4 and 5._

 


End file.
